


From What I've Tasted of Desire

by wittyy_name



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alpha/Alpha, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Biting, Blood, Blow Jobs, Childhood Friends, Dragon shifters, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gratuitous Pining, Grinding, Hand Jobs, I hope that's enough tags, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Porn with Feelings, Raging Hormones, Rough Sex, Shifter AU, Smut, bonding bites, dual cocks, primal instincts, ruts, that's right they have two dicks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:14:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22326157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wittyy_name/pseuds/wittyy_name
Summary: He can't imagine this sort of soft intimacy with anyone else.Not another alpha. Not a beta. Fuck, not even an omega, and everyone— everything their society is built on— says heshouldbe finding this sort of intimacy with an omega. Someone soft and gentle with a sweet scent that will balance him out and complete him.But he doesn't want a sweet scent.He wants Lance's scent. Salty and fresh. Crisp like an ocean breeze. Musky and dark, earthy like a forest after rain. Smoldering like a fire that's been put out, wood heated and wet.He's haunted by that scent. By Lance's scent. He smells it everywhere. Clinging to his clothes. To his skin. To the air around him long after Lance is gone. He finds himself craving it.__________________________An alpha/alpha dragon shifter story
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 123
Kudos: 1394





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So... I'm gonna be honest here. This isn't what I usually write. But I wrote a 10k long abo alpha/alpha dragon klance thread on my nsfw twitter, and I thought... why not turn it into an actual fic? So I did. And here it is. 
> 
> This may not be for some of you who follow my writing, but that's okay. ABO isn't for everyone. I'll see you at my next project! But if you _are_ willing to give it a shot, welcome. There's a severe lack of alpha/alpha content, and never enough dragons, so here I am to provide. 
> 
> As is my Brand™, there's a gratuitous amount of emotional build up, and I hope the smut at the end makes the wait worth it. (smut starts to come into play in the next chapter)
> 
> You can thank Kali (@MelancholyMango on both twitter and here) for inspiring me with two dicked dragons.
> 
> You can thank my old babysitter for sparking my dragon obsession at the age of five.
> 
> And this is dedicated to all my followers on my nsfw twitter and horny klance twitter in general for being so excited and encouraging.
> 
> Happy Reading!

Nunvill has never been one of Lance’s favorite drinks, but it gets the job done. Smells like fermented piss and doesn’t taste much better. Bites the whole way down, but settles like liquid heat in your veins.

The burn at the back of his throat is familiar and comforting, but it makes the cut on his lip sting something fierce.

He hisses, grimacing as he runs his tongue over the swollen gash. Not bleeding, but still tastes vaguely metallic. The pain quickly settles out into a dull throb. It’ll be heal over soon. Be mostly gone by morning. Leaving nothing more than a red spot that might linger for only a couple of days.

Dragons heal fast. Thank the heavens.

It hurts like a bitch, but it’s not going to stop him from enjoying tonight. Besides, he doesn’t regret it. Not in the slightest. Only wishes that he had gotten a few more good hits in before they were pulled apart.

In fact, there’s a certain _pride_ that fizzles through his veins at the memory of Griffin’s face twisted in anger and pain, spitting fury and blood.

It’s what he _gets_. It’s what he _deserves_. No one— and he does mean _no one_ — is allowed to speak about Keith like _that_.

No one but _Lance_.

“Hey.”

It’s a familiar voice. Low. Rumbly. Coarse around the edges, but leaking warmth when you know what to look for. Like a crackling fire. Dangerous, but comforting. It’s not loud. Not accusatory. Not even remotely enthused.

Just a casual, quiet, and indifferent _hey_ that breaks the silence and announces his presence. It’s a habit he’s picked up after years of Lance’s complaints that he’s too _sneaky_. Slipping through shadows on silent feet. After one too many heart attacks, at least now he has the decency to let Lance know when he’s around.

He can’t wait until they present, when their scents get less neutral and their sense of smell becomes stronger. Then Keith’s sneaking days will be over.

Keith will probably have a strong scent. A hearty scent. One that Lance would be able to pick up for _miles_. Because Keith is going to be a strong alpha. There’s really no doubt in his mind.

And the thought… doesn’t really bother him as much as it used to.

“Hey,” Lance says. Doesn’t bother to look up. Sips his nunvill again and winces as it burns.

Keith comes to stand next to him. They’re perched up on the third floor. In one of the many alcoves that form balconies that look down over the ballroom below. Few people come to the third floor. It’s quieter. More for privacy than socialization. Lance had come here to be alone with his dizzying thoughts, but he can’t bring himself to be upset that Keith is here.

He leans against one wall of the alcove with a shoulder. One arm crossed over his chest. The other holding his cup. Right up against the railing, his eyes are on the wide open room below. Where his people move and dance. The slow, rhythmic beat of heavy drums and the cry of reeded instruments encouraging them to move their bodies in mesmerizing ways.

Usually, he’d be among them.

He’s a fantastic dancer, and the entire clan knows it.

He loves the eyes. The attention. The praise. The hunger.

But tonight, he wanted to be alone with his thoughts. Because he’s been thinking, and while they’re not _bad_ thoughts, they’re certainly life altering. A shift in perspective. Acceptance comes easier with the burn of nunvill and warm fog enveloping his mind.

“You look like shit,” Keith says. Because that’s _Keith_. Blunt. To the point. Sharp as ever.

It’s that same tone that used to make Lance bristle. That led to them constantly fighting. Butting heads like the couple of young pups they were. Bashing horns and spitting sparks. Because Lance used to take it personally. Used to think Keith was just an asshole. Keith probably thought the same of him— even said so on occasion.

Lance called him a dirty mongrel begging for scraps and thinking himself king.

Keith called him a pompous noble with his head shoved so far up his ass he could give himself heartburn with his own breath.

They’re better now.

They know better now.

They’re know _each other_ better now.

Somehow, in all the fighting, in all the ribbing, between all the hurled curses and flung fists, they’ve managed to learn about one another. Come to understand one another. Seen each other’s pain, and realized that… they’re really not too different. They’re both just struggling to find their place. Struggling to live up to expectations.

Lance, born into a wealthy house, high up the food chain of the Altean clan. A noble by blood, but the youngest of five children. All the notoriety, all the expectations, but without a place to call his own.

Keith, one of the last of an ancient bloodline. One of the last remaining members of the Marmora clan, who were nearly wiped out when they rebelled against the overreaching Galra clan. Sent to the Altean clan at a young age to be raised. A refugee. Taken in by the famous war hero, Takashi Shirogane himself.

Somehow, Lance’s number one— self proclaimed— enemy became his number one friend. And he’s not sure how the hell that happened, but he’s not about to regret it. Not when he’s learned that earning Keith’s trust— being on the receiving end of his mischievous smile and being the one to make him laugh, being the one Keith leans into for support and the one Keith is willing to defend— is so much more rewarding than being his nemesis.

They’re still rivals, though. Make no mistake.

But it’s no longer rooted in a place of envy and aggression. It’s firmly planted in admiration and fueled by the desire to _do_ better and _be_ better.

So now that he _knows_ Keith, he knows that his commentary isn’t a sharp jab, but a stab right into the heart of things. No beating around the bush. Right to the point. Blunt and crass, but laced with concern and a furrowed brow as his eyes linger on Lance’s busted lip.

He scoffs. Rolls one shoulder. Slides his gaze to look at Keith sidelong. Trying not to wince as his lip curls into a cocky smirk. “You should see the other guy.”

“I did. His eye is swollen closed. Bruising down to his jaw.”

That only makes Lance grin wider— especially when he can hear that subtle pride in Keith’s voice— but this time he does wince as his wound stretches. He covers it by taking another sip, face contorting in disgust as he swallows. “He deserved it.”

“What was it this time?” Keith leans a hip against the railing. Facing him. Arms crossed over his chest. “A crass remark about Allura? About Veronica?” Something dark flickers over Keith’s features. “If he was going on about your place in the guard, I swear, I’ll—“

“It was about you, actually.”

“Me?” Keith blinks. Brows creasing in the middle. Head tilting to the side. “What did he say?”

Lance looks back down to the ballroom below. It’s a celebration for Allura. She presented as an alpha a few weeks ago, and now that her first rut is over, the clan is celebrating their princess. As a high born noble, he should be down there. Mingling. But he’s not. Here’s up here. Alone with Keith.

And strangely enough, he doesn’t feel like he’s missing out on anything.

“He was talking shit again,” Lance huffs. “The usual. That you don’t belong here. That you don’t deserve to be a knight. That you’ll never be an alpha like Shiro.” He grits his teeth, hand flexing around his goblet. “That it doesn’t matter what you present as because no one will want to mate with you.”

Keith, however, doesn’t feel the same anger that flickers in Lance’s chest. He only scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Griffin is all smoke and no flame.”

“I know, but I’m tired of hearing it.”

“I can fight my own battles, Lance.”

“I know.” No hesitation. No doubt. A slight snort of amusement because no one could ever say that Keith couldn’t fight his own battles. He looks to Keith with absolute confidence, a small smile touching his lips as he says softer, “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let him talk about you like that.”

Keith says nothing. His dark gaze roams over Lance’s face. Picking apart his features. Trying to read him. It’s an intense stare. One that has his feeling fidgety and flighty, worried about what Keith might see. But he refuses to move. Doesn’t look away.

And finally, Keith’s expression softens. Just slightly. Barely perceivable. But Lance knows him. Lance sees it.

“ _You_ used to talk about me like that.”

“Yeah? And if I could go back in time, I’d kick my own ass.”

Keith lets out a sharp breath. That barely-there laugh that trickles out into an almost chuckle. He shakes his head. Looks away. Gaze down on the dancers below. He tries to hide his smile, but Lance sees it. He _always_ sees it. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

An amiable silence settles over them. That’s another thing. Silence. Something that he’s always hated. Always made him feel restless and antsy. It feels comfortable with Keith. He doesn’t need to fill it. Doesn’t need to entertain. Keith is content in his presence, and Lance is honored to have that sort of trust.

He downs the rest of his drink. Ignoring the burn. Hissing out a breath as he runs his tongue over his lip once more. He lowers his arm, letting the goblet rest against the railing. The warmth oozes out through his veins, making him feel boneless and relaxed. It curls through his head, light and foggy. Dizzying, but in a way that buzzes pleasantly through his limbs, down to his fingertips.

The music below pulses through his feet. The heavy beat of the drums. The cry of the melody. It demands he move, and his body obeys without question. Swaying where he stands. Hips rolling, torso following through with the wave. His head shifts from side to side, feeling the pulse, obeying the trance.

And it’s in this trance that his thoughts slip through. Formed on a tongue that feels thick and heavy. Shaped in a voice that’s low but lilting, soft and thoughtful.

“Griffin doesn’t know what he’s talking about anyway. Everyone knows you’re going to present as an alpha, and anyone would be lucky to have you as a mate.” Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Keith turn to him. But he doesn’t look. Just closes his own eyes and continues to say, a smirk playing at his lips. “In fact, I bet all the omegas are going to _line up_ , practically _begging_ you to court them.”

Keith hums, low and thoughtful. “I doubt it.”

“I don’t.”

“What about you?” Keith asks. Casual. Curious. Carefully… _something_. “What’d you think you’ll present as?”

Lance scoffs, opening his eyes merely to roll them. They’ve had this conversation often. They all have. It’s a common one. Everyone always wonders and debates and talks about what they think they’ll present as— what they _want_ to present as. Some have preferences. Some don’t. Some are obvious— like Keith, _clearly_ alpha material.

They’ve sat around with the other knights in training. Lazing around between sparring, when Shiro is too far away to tell them otherwise. Blowing steam. Puffing out their chests. Everyone claiming they’ll present as an alpha because of _course_ everyone wants it— _needs_ it.

After all, while omegas are allowed to train as knights, they’re only allowed to be part of the home guard. An elite force, yes. Vital to clan protection, yes. But _limited_.

“ _Clearly_ , I’m an alpha,” he says, automatic and confident, gesturing down the length of all of him. Not missing the way Keith’s eyes follow the gesture.

He _wants_ to be an alpha. Always has. Has always seen it as an inevitability. He _has_ to be. Not that he has anything against omegas, or even betas. His mother is an omega and the fiercest woman he’s ever met. It would be an honor to be an omega like her. And betas are the backbone of the clan.

Still… he wants to be an _alpha_. Wants to be a war hero. A knight. A strong and yet gentle man— like Shiro— who can provide for his mate and his family. He knows he’s going to be an alpha. He can feel it in his core.

Still… lately, he’s been thinking… that _maybe_ — there’s just a _possibility_ — that it wouldn’t be so bad if he… _didn’t_.

And those are the thoughts that slip out, here in this private moment between them, raw with honesty. “But if I do present as an omega, I’d definitely want you to court me.”

A pause.

A consideration.

A hesitant and surprised, “…Really?”

“Yeah, man.” He lets out a low laugh, breath shaky. He blames the nunvill for his admissions. Doesn’t think he’d ever be able to breech this topic otherwise. But it’s a thought that’s been growing lately. A thought he can’t shake. “You’re already like… the perfect alpha. You’d be the perfect mate.”

He doesn’t look at Keith. Doesn’t think he can. There’s a pause. A silence that feels like it’s eating Lance alive. But then he says, “I’d take good care of you.” His voice is soft, but firm. Rigid with that unwavering confidence and stubbornness that Lance used to hate him for. And beneath it all, there’s something… _more_. Rounded and soft. Fond. Awed? _Reverent_.

It sends shivers down his spine.

Has heat coalescing in his gut.

Has a thrill rippling through him as his inner dragon shifts and coils, rumbling and pleased. Awakened by whatever _this_ is.

“I know you would.” He’s proud when his voice doesn’t waver. When he sounds put together and coy instead of molten and shaky like he feels. “But don’t expect me to submit to you. You’ve got to _earn_ it, buddy. I wouldn’t be a house omega. I’d be out there fighting right alongside you, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

He still can’t look at Keith, but he can hear the smile in his voice. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

* * *

They don’t talk about that night again. The sentiments are never echoed. Never repeated. Not a word of it slips past lips or finds voice.

And yet, neither of them can shake it.

Something _shifts_ between them. Something so fragile, hot to the touch, trembling under pressure and ready to combust if either of them dare to bring it to light.

Neither of them do.

They let it fester. Let it bubble and brew. Let it heat the air between them, growing taut and heavy.

It’s in their stares. There’s always been a spark between them, but it’s different now. First, it had been annoyance and unfocused irritation, rage. Then it was competitive in nature, mischievous and kind. Now, it’s… _heated_. Heavy. Languid and dangerous.

It’s in the way they reach for each other, touches casual but lingering. In the way Keith will go out of formation while they fly, just to flick his wing against Lance’s, throwing him off. It’s in the way Lance bumps into Keith, leans against his shoulder.

It’s in the way they’ve both grown quiet during presenting conversations. Eyes avoiding each other until they meet and lock, Lance’s fingers curling into claws in the soft earth before he looks away.

It’s in the way Keith’s gaze tracks him from across crowded rooms, watching him from the shadows, wholly focused and predatory.

And Lance? He _loves_ it. Loves the thrill of Keith’s eyes focused on him, weighted and intense. Overwhelming. Sucking the breath from his lungs and making his hackles rise. Once, he might have taken it as a challenge, but now… now it’s something else. Something that has him preening, _basking_ in Keith’s attention.

It makes him feel… _confident_. It isn’t a confidence like he’s used to, but it’s addicting all the same.

Makes him tilt his head to the side when he knows Keith is watching, exposing the curve of his neck— teasing, coy, taunting. Makes him stretch out his body during training, poised in ways he knows makes him look good, smirking when he sees the way Keith licks his lips.

Keith’s eyes on him… it’s a thrill unlike any he’s ever known. It’s tantalizing. Makes him feel _powerful_ in ways he never expected. It’s _addicting_.

Their kind— dragon shifters— take longer to present than any other shifter species. They live for longer. Develop slower. Have more drastic bodily developments. They don’t present until early adulthood, giving their bodies plenty of time to build up the appropriate hormones and prepare for the changes.

And as their peers start to present around them, the tension between him and Keith only grows.

Pidge and Hunk present first, as betas are wont to do. And the fact that he and Keith are taking this long is _proof_ that they’ll be either alpha or omega.

Lance has always been excited about presenting, but it’s a different sort of excitement now. There’s a heated thrill— like that of the chase— twisted up with a dread that feels like lead in his gut.

He’s not sure what he wants anymore, twisted up and torn.

All he can do is hope that he won’t be disappointed.

* * *

Disappointment, unfortunately, is exactly what he gets.

He presents as an alpha.

And while the first thing he feels as the first wave of his rut rushes over him is joy, it’s followed swiftly by the crushing realization of what this means for him and Keith.

He had known the first rut and first heat are _terrible_. Hormones are released in heavy waves that are overwhelming and overstimulating. The body is put through excruciating pain as they’re forced to shift into something new. It’s unlike the pain of shifting to their dragon forms— which is brief pain followed by ecstasy. This is a burning sensation of being torn and stitched back together as the body grows new organs.

Female alphas grow a cock. Female omegas grow an omegan uterus. Male omegas form an omegan slit. Male alphas grow a second cock. They all develop glands beneath the skin that are rife with pulsing hormones. Their sense of smell awakens, making everything overwhelmingly _too much_.

Lance had known all this, but the reality of going through it is so much worse.

He spends his first rut writhing in a nest made by his mother, surrounded by family who coo and coddle him, comforting him with their scents as he writhes in the waves of pain that sear through his body.

And in the moments of respite, he sobs quietly to himself. Not from the pain. No, he can handle that. But from the weight that feels like it’s crushing his chest.

He mourns the loss of what could have been.

When his rut is over— when he’s recovered and reintroduced into the clan— his life is the same… but different.

Things have shifted.

Things are _always_ shifting between him and Keith. Always. From the very beginning. Never staying static for long. But before, it felt like they were always shifting _toward_ something. Barreling down a path toward something— something— and now it feels like they’ve deviated. Like they’ve been forced from that path into something else.

And Lance feels lost in the wilderness.

He smiles because it’s expected of him. He flaunts his new status because of course he does. Despite the heavy weight in his chest, he’s _proud_ to be an alpha. It’s all he ever wanted. To be strong. To protect. To provide. To court a mate and sire a family. To be useful to the clan.

His family congratulates him. His friends are happy for him. Allura smiles at him with pride.

And yet Keith…

Keith does all the same, yet there’s an air of… something somber about it.

And Lance feels it, too.

Hates it all the same.

Keith tries to maintain what they had— whatever closeness they had gained. He tries to treat Lance the same, but Lance just… he can’t. He can’t handle it. He doesn’t want to, but he feels himself pulling away. Putting space between them.

Distance.

Distance, he thinks, will make it better.

Though unfortunately, it doesn’t help the ache in his chest.

Still, he smiles. He steps into his new role. His new position in the clan. Takes it with pride and confidence.

He’s an alpha dragon. It’s a badge he wears with honor.

Everything else— everything that could have been— were just new and fleeting fantasies.

 _This_. This is what he’s always wanted.

* * *

So why isn’t he happy?

* * *

Months later, he shows up to the training ground to find Keith no where in sight.

“Where’s dark, broody, and scrappy?” He asks, hands on his hips, eyes narrowed as he surveys the fields. His vision has gotten sharper since presenting— coming fully into his dragon senses— but he can’t find any sign of that mop of unruly hair. And Lance would recognize it anywhere.

“Why do you care?” Griffin asks, stretched out on the grass nearby, eyes closed and hands behind his head. Soaking up the sun in the moments before Coran calls them to attention.

Lance’s brows furrow, irritation flickering through him. “Why _wouldn’t_ I care?”

“Uh, maybe because you’ve been avoiding him for the past month?” Rizavi supplies.

“I haven’t been avoiding him,” Lance scoffs, but he can’t deny the trickle of guilt that creeps down his spine.

“You have,” she says, giving him a flat stare. “And we’ve all noticed.”

“It’s awkward,” Griffin adds.

“I haven’t been avoiding Keith!” He snaps, throwing his hands up. They all look at him with unfazed, flat stares— Griffin, Rizavi, and all the other trainees who glance over at his outburst. He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Anyway, where is he? It’s not like him to skip training.”

Rizavi shrugs. “Dunno. He hasn’t shown up yet.”

“He’s probably moping around at home because Shiro had to go on a mission without him,” Lance says with a roll of his eyes.

Despite the fact that Keith isn’t a proper knight yet, Keith somehow thinks he’s up for the task of accompanying Shiro on— no doubt dangerous— missions. Missions that he’s often sent on as a member of the royal guard and an expert in war tactics. That’s Keith for you. Reckless and stubborn to a fault. And not above brooding along in his home like a forgotten pup.

“I’ll go get him,” he says, already turning on his heel and jogging back down the path towards town. “Tell Coran we’re going to be late!”

He knows the way to Keith’s home by heart. He’s run along these worn streets many times before. As a member of the royal guard, Shiro has a cozy little home near the palace, and that’s where he practically raised Keith. From the scruffy, half feral boy he was into the strong, confident man he is now.

The thought of how far Keith has come has Lance smiling all the way up the path to the door, but he freezes with a hand poised to knock—

Nose twitching— inhaling deeply— letting out a shuddering breath.

That— _that_. It’s a scent that has a shiver running down his spine, coiling low in his gut before it warms, radiating heat.

 _Alpha_.

It smells like _alpha_. Pure. Unadulterated. Raw. Concentrated. _Intense_.

A rut. An alpha’s rut. But Shiro is gone, which means—

 _Keith_.

It hits him hard, breath rushing from his lungs. Keith is presenting. Keith is _presenting_. Keith is presenting as an alpha _right now_. He’s in the midst of his first rut—

Alone.

He’s alone. He’s home, yes, but he’s _alone_. Lance remembers _exactly_ how painful and frightening his first rut had been, and he had family surrounding him and comforting him. It’s customary for family to be there. To help presenting dragons through it. To create an atmosphere of safety.

But Keith… Shiro is his only family, and he’s gone.

He’s alone. In pain. Body twisting and contorting. Left extremely vulnerable and no one to ease him through it. No one to comfort him. No one to hold him when the waves hit and the pain feels like it’s splitting him apart—

Lance’s chest _hurts_ , stomach twisting and nauseous, but a _fire_ burns in his veins. Molten and turning to steel as he sets his jaw, eyes flashing. Decision cooled and hardened, and choice already made.

He reaches for the doorknob and finds it unlocked. This tells him many things. That it hit Keith suddenly. That he no doubt panicked and retreated to his room. That he’s been in too much of a state to think about locking the doors. Or… that he can’t emerge to do so.

When Lance steps into the house, the scent hits him like a _wall_.

It’s a slap in the face of _alpha_. Pure and raw and overwhelming. He stiffens. Freezing once more. Body going rigid and hackles rising on instinct. His inner dragon coils and hisses, reacting to the scent of _alpha_. It’s choking. It claws at his senses. It makes him want to _fight, challenge, maim_.

He closes his eyes. Breathes it in deep. Starts to sift through the scent just like his mother has been teaching him—

And he smells—

He smells—

 _Keith_.

Beneath the intensity of the rut and the onslaught of hormones, he smells _Keith_. Earthy. Sharp. A heat that reminds him of cinnamon and cloves. The crackle of smoke on the back of his tongue. He _knows_ this scent, has been getting used to it in the months since he presented. Keith’s scent hasn’t changed, but it’s gotten… _more_.

Blooming beneath the rising tide of his rut.

And Lance can smell the lingering sour edge of fear. The trembling bite of anxiety.

Lance hates it, and it solidifies his choice. Chases away any doubt he might have had. Call it being a friend. Call it dragon instincts. Alpha instincts. Whatever. Point is, Keith is alone and vulnerable and in pain, and Lance _can’t stand it._

Unless they’re family, alphas don’t comfort alphas during their ruts. It’s simply not done. Hormones can clash. They can get aggressive and territorial, unable to control it in their rut addled state. And that sort of anxiety and stress can make the rut worse.

But Lance… once the initial wave had settled down, once he had scented Keith beneath all the alpha musk, his inner dragon had settled down. It growls within him, not from aggression but from _worry_.

He doesn’t give a fuck about custom. About what is and isn’t done. About what people will say.

He moves swiftly through the house, heading straight for Keith’s room— only to find it empty. He finds Keith in Shiro’s room instead, curled up in his bed in a haphazardly made nest to ride out his first rut surrounded by the scent of family.

As he steps into the room, the figure beneath the blanket goes rigid. It shifts. A mop of dark hair peeks out.

“Keith…” He says, though he can hear him scenting the air. “It’s me.”

A confused whimper.

A questioning growl. Too soft to be a warning. Pitched on the end like a whine. Like a plea.

Lance approaches the bed slowly, cautiously, making low comforting sounds at the back of his throat. Sounds he hadn’t even been aware he could make but come naturally. Instinctual. Driven by the need to protect. To comfort.

The blanket shifts, revealed Keith— sickly pale and shirtless. Heavy bags beneath his eyes. Gaze lidded and hazy. Hair a mess. A thin sheen of sweat covering his skin. He grips the sheet tight as Lance comes near, body coiled tight.

Lance can’t blame him. There’s another alpha in his space, and his instincts are no doubt going haywire. He wonders if perhaps he made the wrong choice. Overstepped some bounds. Wonders if his presence will make Keith’s rut worse—

Then he breathes in deep, eyes closing, and Lance watches as he immediately relaxes with a long, relieved sigh.

He reaches out— reaching for _Lance_ — making these deep and pitiful sounds that melt Lance’s heart.

Lance slips easily into the bed with him, taking Keith into his arms and holding him tight as he shivers— pain wracking through his body as waves of hormones surge through him. He’s hot to the touch, _burning_ against Lance’s naturally cooler skin, but he doesn’t let go.

And when the wave is done, he nuzzles under Lance’s chin. _Scenting him_. Pressing his nose to Lance’s neck and inhaling long and deep— sighing as his body relaxes. Melting into Lance’s embrace.

Lance stays with him through his whole rut.

Holding him as the waves hit. Cooing and rumbling in his ear, whispering calming words. Running his hands down Keith’s back and through his hair. And while he slips into an exhausted sleep, Lance goes out in search for food. Tells Veronica what’s happening and to cover for him at home before slipping back before Keith can wake. Bathing him gently between waves. Washing and changing his sheets when they’re soaked in sweat.

And he’s pleased to note that he never once catches a whiff of fear or anxiety from Keith while he’s there.

What he does… it’s unheard of between alphas. But given the circumstances, Lance sees nothing wrong. It’s nothing his family wouldn’t have done for him.

But… Keith isn’t family.

And he leaves after Keith’s rut feeling, again, like something has _shifted_.

A promise unvoiced. Whispered in the shadows. Something that neither of them dare to form into words.

A silent question with an unspoken agreement.

Nothing happens during Keith’s rut, but Lance walks away with anticipation tingling beneath his skin and the echo of _next time_ whispering in his minds.

* * *

* * *

_Next time_.

It’s a haunting thought. One that’s never been spoken aloud, yet echoes in the recesses of his mind all the same. Persistent. Constant. A subtext that hums beneath every interaction he has with Lance.

And he can see it haunting Lance as well. Can see it glisten and spark behind those beautiful blue eyes. Can see it curl his smirk just a hair too wide. Can see it in the way his long, lithe body curves when he knows Keith’s is watching.

He’s cocky.

He’s annoying.

He’s a _tease_.

The worst part, however, is that Keith doesn’t know when _next time_ will even be. Or what it will look like. Or what it will entail. He assumes their next rut, but what if _next time_ is a moment neither of them can deny? A moment where they’re close. Where they spend a night together. It could be at any time, on any day, and it leaves Keith feeling this anticipatory buzz whenever Lance is around— waiting, watching, _hoping_.

And if _next time_ is one of their ruts… then whose? And how do they even approach that? Would Lance even want Keith around during his rut? And Keith… after having Lance hold him all through his first one, the thought of spending the next without Lance is nauseating. But… how would he even ask?

Alphas and alphas… it’s just not _done_.

He and Lance… they’re not meant to be together. They’re not biologically and hormonally _compatible_.

And yet _next time_ … it’s haunting and exhilarating and impossible to ignore.

For better or for worse, neither of them have to worry about _next time_ for a while. Ruts (and heats, for that matter) come slow in the early years. Allowing the body to adjust and settle with the new hormones.

But something has _shifted_.

His relationship with Lance… whatever is between them… it’s _always_ shifting. Always changing. Always amorphous and undefined. Whenever Keith thinks he knows where they stand, whenever he reaches for it— it slides through his fingers like smoke.

He can never get ahold of Lance. Never fully understand. Because it’s always changing. Always shifting.

He feels like he’s constantly a step behind, and right when he feels like he’s caught up— Lance steps again. In another direction. Leading them in a strange dance that Keith can’t keep up with and can’t predict.

And yet he follows all the same.

Always has. Fears that he always will.

Because Lance… he’s addicting, and Keith is far too weak to resist.

* * *

Months pass, and yet the strange, humming tension between them only grows.

Something is different, and yet Keith can’t name it. Is afraid to. They’ve opened a door on something that neither of them will openly acknowledge. Both faced away from it. Aware that the way is open, but both of them refusing to be the first to approach it, let alone step through.

They’re both left standing there, stubbornly, feeling the draft and whisper of unvoiced promises that send chills down their spines.

Yet neither look.

And the tension grows.

* * *

They’re knighted at the same time. Graduating from trainees to full fledged protectors of the clan. Shiro is proud. Allura is beaming. Coran tears up. Lance’s family all gathers to congratulate them both— Keith has become a somewhat permanent fixture in their lives, and he’s not entirely sure when that happened.

They were notable as trainees, but as knights, their notoriety only grows.

As alphas, their bodies grow stronger, faster, and more durable. Keith had already noticed the way Lance has been filling out since presenting— going from a lanky and somewhat gangly young man to fit and firm and lithe with slender, corded muscle— but now he feels that transformation himself.

Their instincts lean toward rage, aggression, and territorial tendencies. All of this, curbed and combined with their desire to protect their own— friends, family, the clan— fuels their fighting prowess.

And as such, with so many hormone driven alphas together, all striving and training to be warriors, there’s a lot of showing off. A lot of posturing. A lot of preening and bragging. A lot of flexing.

They goad each other. Push each other. Strive to show off. Try to take ground and nudge each other, just to prove that they can. Not to put each other down, but to prove their own strengths. It’s a game of pride. A game of figuring out themselves. A game of figuring out the subtle internal hierarchy of alphas.

Keith and Lance are no different.

Lance is more into the posturing, but Keith is always ready to take on a challenge.

And Lance challenges Keith more than any of the others.

They’ve always been competitive. Right from the start. Especially with each other. Despite this odd friendship they’ve grown into, their rivalry has never ceased. The maliciousness has faded. It’s far more amiable and far more friendly, but it’s still there.

Except… things have _shifted_ , and friendly is now too mild of a word.

Because when Keith spars with Lance, there’s a new level of tension between them. Whatever has been growing between them, it rises to the surface when they spar.

It’s aggression. It’s predatory. It’s animalistic in nature, their dragons crawling just beneath the surface. It’s violent and cocky. But it’s not… negative. It’s… strangely, bewilderingly positive. It feels _good_. It feels _right_.

To outside eyes, he’s sure they look like typical alphas, but Keith knows better.

He can _feel_ the difference.

Eyes never leaving each other. Movements graceful and fluid. Predatorily. Agile as cats. Bodies liquid like snakes. Scales rippling beneath the skin as their muscles flex with every movement. They circle each other, eyes flashing like gemstones and pupils slitted. Spines growing on their backs. Claws sharpening and growing, wicked and curved from their nail beds.

But… it's not anger. It's not just rivalry. It's not the usual alpha desire to dominate. It’s not the same sort of aggression Keith feels when sparring with other alphas.

It's something... _more,_. Not just to dominate, but to dominate _each other_. Specifically Lance. To prove to _Lance_ that he’s strong. That he’s _worthy_.

And he can see the same sort of drive in Lance’s movements. Showing off— not to prove that he’s better, but to prove that he’s _enough_. To prove that he’s _strong_.

Even when he’s sparring with others, Keith catches Lance’s eyes on him. Pointed. Sharp. Making sure he has Keith’s attention before looking away. He wants Keith to watch, like Keith ever really would do otherwise.

And Keith would be lying if he said he doesn’t fight harder when he knows Lance is watching.

It’s complicated.

It’s become second nature.

It’s constantly shifting.

Keith never knows where he stands with Lance, but he knows that where ever it is, it’s always at the center of his attention.

And that, in and of itself, is addicting.

* * *

It's an instinctual drive when they clash. Coming together like fire, heated and building and raging, fueling each other’s flames. It's relentless. It's heated and desperate. They hiss and snarl and roll over one another. Scales risen to the surface— Keith’s dark and red, Lance’s shades of blue. Claws scraping off one another, cutting wounds that they barely feel in the adrenaline and rage.

They pin each other to the ground, thrashing with an unbendable will, writhing snakes that are impossible to keep down for long, neither of them willing to submit—

But one always submits in the end.

It's never the same, the one who ends up yielding. This time, however, it’s Lance. After a long, and drawn out fight— as they tend to be— he’s finally got Lance pinned.

Keith is poised above him, one knee pressed into Lance’s back, grinding his chest into the dirt. One hand is on on Lance’s wrist, twisting it around to his back and rendering it useless. His other hand is on the back of Lance’s neck. Claws pressed firmly to his skin. Not hard enough to pierce, but rough enough to nearly do the trick. To show him that he could, if he wanted to.

After a moment of thrashing, Lance finally calms. Finally relents. Body going lax beneath Keith— which in and of itself is a feeling that has Keith’s adrenaline spiking.

They stay like that for a moment, chests heaving, breaths heavy. Keith’s inner dragon is preening, satisfied and proud, the victory tasting sweet on his tongue.

Then Lance is twisting his head, tilting it to look back at Keith out of the corner of his eye. There’s something there. A fire still raging behind those blue gemstone eyes, lined with beautiful crystal scales, pupils still slitted. There’s something _burning_ there as he stares up at Keith, and it’s not rage. It’s not sour or bitter. It’s not frustration at his loss.

In fact… he stares up at Keith like he’s _won_.

Lips curled into a coy smirk, Lance tongue— forked at the tip in their adrenaline fueled state— slips out. Runs along his fangs. Along those wet, red lips.

Keith’s gaze is drawn to the movement. Fixated on it. Hands flexing as his body goes rigid, claws digging into Lance’s flesh. It causes a noise to escape Lance’s parted lips, low and _pleased_.

A noise that goes straight to Keith’s gut, building up a new kind of fire.

A noise that has Keith growling low in his throat, a deep rumble as he feels his thighs tighten, resisting the urge to rut forward against the man he has pinned beneath him—

Then Shiro clears his throat, and they snap out of it, scrambling away from each other and to their feet as the next pair steps up to spar.

They walk away without making eye contact, and as the adrenaline starts to peter out and his dragon starts to recede, he can feel the bruises and scrapes starting to set in. He mentally takes stock of them. Of all the points on his body that hurt and sting. He always walks away with more of them from spars with Lance than any other.

And yet he can’t bring himself to mind.

Glancing sidelong, he can see Lance is in much the same condition. Perhaps worse this time. Keith hadn’t exactly been gentle, and he knows that his claws caught flesh quite a few times.

And usually, at this point, they’ll go their separate ways. As they have every time before. They’ll take some space to calm down from whatever is brewing between them. To breathe. To tend to their wounds in private and the rush of it all washes away.

It’s happened many times before.

Too many to count.

And yet _this time_ , Keith deviates from their pattern.

“Come on,” he says, reaching out and snatching Lance’s wrist, catching him before he can walk away and tugging him toward the training hall.

Lance makes a startled sound. Something quiet and questioning. But he follows easily, falling into step behind Keith.

He can’t pin point what about _this time_ feels different, but it does. Perhaps it’s the lingering heat settled low in his gut. Perhaps it was the fire he had seen in Lance’s eyes, desperate not to let that ember die out. Perhaps it had been the awkward way Lance had been holding himself after their spar, uncharacteristically uncertain, brows pinched and movements stiff. Keith knows him well enough to know what his doubt looks like, and he doesn’t want to see it. Not when it comes to him— to them— to this _thing_.

And perhaps _this time_ is only different because that’s their nature. The ever constant shifting. Perhaps it had been too static for too long, and Keith had finally gotten fed up with it.

Perhaps he simply wanted to be the catalyst for a shift for once instead of being simply tugged along in the wake.

Either way, he finds himself taking a bold, blind leap.

The training hall is a large structure just on the edge of the training fields. Inside is a large mess hall and storage rooms. A place for everything they might need during a day of training, without having to go all the way back to town.

Just after their afternoon meal, the hall is nearly empty.

Keith leads Lance to the far end, to a table that’s nestled and half hidden in a private alcove, bordered by pillars and out of sight of the few knights that laze around.

“Sit,” he says, finally releasing Lance’s wrist and pinning him with a firm stare. “Stay.”

He catches Lance’s amused smirk as he turns away, but he doesn’t look back. He moves on autopilot, refusing to think about what he’s doing. Thinking has never gotten him much besides worry and doubt. With Lance, he’s found, it’s better to simply act.

His instincts have never steered him wrong, and with Lance, his instincts are loud.

His instincts are telling him to take care of him.

And that’s exactly what Keith intends to do.

He heads to the med bay, gathering up bandages and a wash bowl. Things he’s gotten unfortunately familiar with over the years, though he’s been told his ferocity and fighting prowess are marks of a good alpha, that he’ll be a good mate.

He can only hope it’s true.

He finds Lance sitting where he left him, straddling the bench and leaning sideways to rest an elbow on the table. Chin in his palm, he glances around the room, but the moment Keith sits down next to him, his gaze is sharp, focused, confused.

“What’re you doing?” He asks. Not accusatory. Not cautious. Simply curious.

“Helping.” Keith sits so he’s straddling the bench, facing Lance. Gets close enough that their knees knock together. Doesn’t meet his eyes as he pulls the bowl close and and wrings out the wash cloth.

Lance doesn’t say a word as Keith gets to work. He holds out his arms when Keith wordlessly reaches for them. He twists and exposes his wounds to Keith. Shallow scrapes, blood already dried but messy. He doesn’t hesitate to guide Keith to spots that he missed, showing him wounds that aren’t immediately visible.

As Keith leans close, running the wash cloth gently along the pinpricks in Lance’s neck— where his claws had dug in a little more fiercely than he had noticed— he realizes how intimate this is.

How close they’re sitting.

How vulnerable Lance is as he exposes his neck and his wounds to another alpha, humming with contentment as Keith’s touch lingers.

Keith, however, doesn’t let himself get distracted. He’s focused on his task. Of cleaning Lance up and bandaging the deeper wounds that have yet to heal on their own. There’s a pinch between his brows and a purse to his lips. He refuses to meet Lance’s gaze, knowing that doing so would not only be distracting, but call attention to just how close they are. Still, he can feel Lance’s eyes on him, on his every movement, hot and heavy.

And when he’s done, he moves to grab the bowl, halfway to his feet before Lance’s hands are on his arm, holding him still. “Wait,” he says softly, tugging Keith back down. “Sit.” He takes the bowl from Keith’s hands. “Let me.”

He returns the favor. Hands strong and fingers slender. Movements gentle and sure as they move across Keith’s body, taking stock of his own injuries, washing and bandaging them with practiced ease.

Keith lets his eyes flutter shut, wholly focused on each and every spot where they touch. Where _Lance_ touches _him_. It’s a spark between them, sizzling and igniting beneath Keith’s flesh. Building up the heat that’s settled low in his gut. Making his inner dragon coil and squirm.

Every touch is exhilarating. Igniting. Making his breath catch and making his body hum from the anticipation of where the next will come.

Pleasure, he thinks. This is what pleasure feels like. From something so simple. And yet nothing with Lance has ever been _simple_.

He’s barely keeping track of the injuries Lance is tending to, wholly wrapped up in the sensations of it all. Memorizing and savoring every fleeting and lingering gentle touch, wishing for it to never end.

But end it does.

He hears Lance set the cloth aside. Hears the soft plop into the water. Hears the gentle scrape of the bowl as it’s pushed away.

He draws in a breath, expecting Lance to stand, to take their supplies away—

And then that breath gets caught in his lungs as he suddenly feels a touch at his jaw.

Not the touch of fingers. The touch of a— nose?

Lance nudges under his jaw, leaning in close enough for Keith to feel his breath. One of his hands rests on Keith’s thigh, slender fingers strong as his grip flexes, thumb rubbing lightly. He makes a sound, soft and questioning, running his nose along Keith’s jaw and nudging once more.

Keith breaths in a sharp breath, holding it for only a second— questioning what to do— before letting it out in a shuddering exhale. With it, he relaxes. Tension leaking out of him. Body turning to putty as he gives in. Surrendering to his instincts, even if they clash with the whispered doubt in the back of his mind.

And with his surrender, he tilts his head— with a soft huff, just to sound begrudging, just to sound somewhat resistant for the sake of his pride— exposing his throat to Lance. Fully and open in invitation.

The happy sound that slips from Lance’s lips makes it all worth it as he leans closer, knees pushing together as he dives into the crook of Keith’s neck.

There, Lance nuzzles him. Running his nose along Keith’s sensitive flesh. Lips brushing against areas Keith has never let anyone touch. His breath ghosting over Keith’s scent glands, causing goosebumps to rise and shivers to run down his spine, violent and full bodied.

Lance buries his nose and breathes in deep. Lets out his own shuddering breath— so content and warm— that Keith finds himself collapsing forward, pushing further into Lance’s space. His hands find Lance’s arms, fingers curling and nails biting. Not in warning, nor to push him away. But to ground himself and hold Lance there while he spirals, dizzy with a giddiness and heat he’s never known.

Because he’s scented with Shiro before. They’re family.

But Lance isn’t.

And scenting another alpha is…

_Strange. Not done. Uncommon. Weird._

But it doesn't _feel_ weird. It feels... good. So good. So _natural_. So instinctual. So exhilarating and calming and fueling this heat he feels brewing in his veins. A heat that whispers forbidden things. Things he hasn’t dared to think about in the context of Lance. Things that aren’t done between alphas.

He tries to think of the other alphas he fights and trains with, but he instantly rejects the idea. He hates the thought of them being this close when he's vulnerable. Of them being this close in general. Taking in his scent. Squeezing his thigh. Running their lips along the column of his throat—

He can't imagine this sort of soft intimacy with anyone else.

Not another alpha. Not a beta. Fuck, not even an omega, and everyone— everything their society is built on— says he _should_ be finding this sort of intimacy with an omega. Someone soft and gentle with a sweet scent that will balance him out and complete him.

But he doesn't want a sweet scent.

He wants Lance's scent. Salty and fresh. Crisp like an ocean breeze. Musky and dark, earthy like a forest after rain. Smoldering like a fire that's been put out, wood heated and wet.

He's haunted by that scent. By Lance's scent. He smells it everywhere. Clinging to his clothes. To his skin. To the air around him long after Lance is gone. He finds himself craving it.

As a knight and warrior, he's surrounded by so many strong scents all the time.

Strong and acrid and aggressive. Both male and female. Alphas and betas in constant training. In constant preening. Presenting themselves. Proving themselves. Fighting each other to be at the top. It's exhausting. It's suffocating. Keith hates it.

But then Lance comes around, and while his scent is strong and masculine, there's something refreshing about it. Something that immediately eases Keith's tension. Makes his shoulders slump. Inhaling deeply and letting out a long content sigh as soon as Lance is near.

He’s pretty sure Lance has noticed.

He can tell his scent gets stronger when Keith is around. Can pick up those notes of comfort whenever Keith is agitated or upset. And despite Lance’s smug little smirk whenever he catches Keith leaning in and breathing deep— as subtle as he tries to be— he can’t bring himself to mind.

Because no matter how obnoxious Lance can be, and no matter how much it might fuel his ego, it’s a testament to how much Keith trusts him. Conflicting feelings aside, Keith cares for Lance as he doesn’t for anyone else. Trusts him like he trusts no one else. And Lance deserves to know that he matters, even if it’s just to Keith.

And if he’s being honest… when he pushes the doubts aside, he can see that Lance is much the same way.

That he trusts and finds comfort in Keith in much the same way.

Being noble born, Lance’s bloodline is in high demand. Always being watched. Always being judged. And he's an _alpha_.

He may be the youngest, but there are expectations weighing on his shoulders. Keith has watched him. Always performing. Always putting on a front. Always proving himself. Always trying to _hide_ himself. Struggling and pushing himself to be the best he can at any given thing and at any given moment of every single day.

Keith has watched.

He’s observed.

He’s ached.

He hates seeing Lance string himself out like that.

But with Keith? All of that seems to… melt away. He can see Lance’s mask slipping. He can see the tension in his jaw ease. HIs smiles look a little more genuine. Smaller, yes, but more relaxed. More real.

And Keith would be lying if he said he hadn’t noticed the way Lance leans in to breathe his scent when he thinks Keith isn’t paying attention.

He’d by lying if he said he didn’t strengthen his scent, full of comfort and safety and something _heated_ just to listen to Lance shudder beside him.

It’s gotten to the point where Lance often seeks Keith out when things are overwhelming. When he’s frustrated and his alpha hormones are raging. When his dragon is slithering close enough to the surface to leave scales dotting his skin, and he looks like he’s just itching for a fight. Or to fly. Or to run.

He’s not sure Lance even realizes it. That he always comes to Keith.

But Keith knows. He always knows. Always lets Lance have it without question. They spar. They race. Keith runs him ragged flying over the mountains. Fighting. Until he's too physically exhausted to do anything anymore.

And it’s the moments after that Keith treasures the most. When— bodies heavy and minds light— they’ll seek out a private place, away from prying eyes, and curl up together. Laid out in the warmth of the sun or under a blanket of stars. A head on a shoulder. Hands tracing patterns on patches of skin, mindless and idle. Fingers picking at one another, still too shy and hesitant to actually intertwine.

And they'll talk. They'll share. It feels quiet and calming.

And then they’ll go home. They separate, and when the next day comes, they won’t talk about it. Won’t address the soft and intimate moments they share.

Like a secret.

Like a taboo.

They're two of the strongest young alphas in the clan. Powerful upcoming knights. Beautiful dragon forms and handsome human forms. Two single alphas fighting each other to the top.

Omegas swoon across the clan for them. Their fights are well known.

They're competitive. They're harsh. They don't hold back because that would be an insult. And they _want_ to prove themselves. To each other. They get scrappy. Anything to win. Anything to come out on top. They often leave training battered, bleeding, and bruised.

And the clan knows.

They see it as a good thing.

They see it as proof that both he and Lance are two of the most eligible bachelors out of all the young alphas.

Sometimes they even think that he and Lance still hate each other, pitting them against one another and building up their rivalry into something that it’s not.

Because there's no aggression between them. No frustration or resentment or anger. There may be stubbornness, pride, and unyielding determination, but it's also playful... edged with this sexual heat and tension that neither want to acknowledge but both feel simmering between them.

And it’s in those moments…

In _these_ moments. Soft and intimate. With Lance nuzzling against his throat, hand slipping slightly higher up his thigh— that Keith wants to acknowledge it.

Wants to voice it.

Wants to reach out and take Lance’s face in his hands and pull him in tight to rut against his aching body—

But then they hear voices.

A group of knights entering the training hall.

And Lance is pulling back. A small, sheepish, shy smile on his lips. Cheeks tinged red as he coughs. Clears his throat. Mumbles a half hearted excuse that Keith can’t even catch.

And then he’s gathering up their bandaging supplies and walked away, pace quick. Retreating, as he always does, under the curious gaze of others.

And Keith is left sitting there.

Stewing in an aching _want_. The ghost of Lance’s hands on him still haunting. His scent still thick in Keith’s lungs. Burning coals of desire still hot, tingling through his veins.

Trying to tell himself this is nothing.

Wishing he could forget.

* * *

A week later, _next time_ happens. It’s unexpected and sudden.

Keith is in the courtyard of the palace, speaking with Shiro. He doesn’t remember about what. Training, no doubt. Plans. Recent scouting movements on the outskirts of their clan’s territory.

But one moment he had he relaxed, arms crossed loosely, listening intently to Shiro’s words, and in the next, his mind had gone blank.

His body froze, muscles going rigid as his eyes snapped open wide. Nostrils flaring as he inhales deeply. He catches it on the wind. Just barely. Just a _hint_. Something so subtle that it takes him a moment to pick it apart, to sift through it, to figure out why his body is reacting.

Something… familiar. Extremely so. Familiar and comforting— damp earth after a storm, the salty crispness of the sea at dawn, the gentle smokiness of wet ashes— but _different_. Stronger. Heated. Spicier. Darker.

It’s barely there. Just the slightest little thing. Vague and diluted on the rolling breeze. Drowned out by the scents of the castle— the stone, the earth, the perfumes, and the gardens. Beneath the layers of everyone around— other alphas, omegas, and betas.

Yet Keith catches onto it— senses quick and honing in— body reacting before his mind can fully piece it together. It knows before he can put a name to it.

He’s moving before he’s fully processed, before his brain has fully caught up to his heart— slamming in his chest and bruising his ribs.

He doesn’t remember leaving Shiro or the courtyard— doesn’t remember if he said a word or if he just left him there. Blacks out and comes to while he’s running, sprinting through the castle grounds.

And it’s then that the word finally forms in his mind, confirming what his body already knows.

 _Rut_.

Lance’s rut.

And the barest hint of distress.

Keith isn’t sure how he picked up on it, and right now, he doesn’t care. Lance had been here for some sort of political meeting with a neighboring clan. Something all the high nobles and royalty were supposed to attend. Which means he might be surrounded by strangers— left vulnerable—

He sprints through the palace. Down halls. Up stairs. Following his nose. Pausing occasionally to scent the air before sprinting once more.

He’s frantic and desperate. He knows there must be a wild look in his eyes and fire on the tip of his tongue as he growls at people to _get out of the way_. He hears the whispers in his wake. Hears the gasps. Sees the servants cower. Hears the omegas coo and the alphas scoff.

He doesn’t care— doesn’t care— just needs to find Lance— has to find him— protect him— be with him—

He finds Lance in an empty back hallway, far from any of the main thoroughfare. Leaning up against the stone wall, head fallen back, claws digging into the mortar between the stones.

He looks weak, crumpled, like his legs might give out any moment. Lips parted as he pants, desperate for air. Eyes squeezed shut. A pretty, pretty flush dusting his cheeks. Body shaking, quivering, muscles tensing and relaxing in intervals that have his thighs and stomach clenching, visible and tantalizing. Accentuating the outlines of his duel cocks, visible in his unfairly tight formal attire.

And his _scent_. So thick and dark and _needy_. Oozing desire. Making a fire in Keith’s chest rise. Making his hands clench with the need to touch. He smells absolutely _filthy_. Delectable. And what Keith wouldn’t give to be able to taste. What he would love to do—

Lance’s eyes snap open the moment Keith steps into the hallway, freezing at the sight of him. Nostrils flaring as he takes in Keith’s own scent— letting out a shuddering breath through parted lips.

Keith doesn’t know what his own scent is doing, far too wrapped up in the way Lance’s fills his senses, wrapping around his mind and suffocating him with heat. But he can see the way Lance’s pupils dilate. The way his body shivers with it. The way his breath catches.

Distantly he wonders— fears— what’s happening. Faced with another alpha’s rut, he should find it abrasive, sour, and bitter. It should be so wholly unpleasant that he retreats, hackles rising— it’s happened before as other alphas have suddenly gone into a rut nearby— but with Lance… it’s always different with Lance.

“Keith,” he whispers, licking dry lips, voice cracking. Unlike his scent, however, his voice isn’t needy or sultry or full of desire in his mounting rut.

It's soft and cracked and _pleading_. Desperate, but not for touch. For help. Help from _Keith_. And while Keith would never approach another alpha in a rut, he doesn't hesitate to hurry to Lance's side. Because Lance isn't posturing aggressively or snarling a warning.

He’s practically begging for Keith, and leans into him the moment Keith wraps an arm around him, nuzzling his face into Keith’s neck and breathing deeply. Letting out a long sigh that’s so full of relief and contentment, but trailing off into a soft groan.

And that groan goes straight through him, his cock twitching with interest.

What he wouldn’t give to hold Lance in earnest. To touch him. To bring him that relief he so clearly craves and needs— but he can’t. Not here. Not when they’re in the open. Where any alpha might wander by and aggravate his rut. Or any omega might send him spiraling.

Not when Lance is so vulnerable. No one should get to witness him in this private state. Keith can’t stand it. The thought of eyes seeing him like this. Of others scenting him like this.

Lance paws at him, clinging tightly and snuffling along the collar of his shirt. This isn’t like their first rut together. Keith’s first. When each wave had brought about a pain so excruciating it had been hard to focus on anything else. No, this is a more natural rut. One of raging hormones that leave the body aching in new ways.

In more intimate ways.

In ways that leave Lance hard and leaking— because Keith can smell that too, salty and earthy and making his mouth water— rutting his hips against Keith’s thigh or open air whenever he can as they stumble through the castle.

But Keith keeps a level head for both of them.

No matter how much his body burns, cocks already hardening and mouth practically drooling, he keeps his head clear. It's surprisingly easy— far easier than he imagined— when his desire takes a back seat to the overwhelming need to get Lance somewhere safe.

He manages to half help, half drag Lance home, and it’s no small feat.

Lance isn’t too far gone that he can’t walk, but the early waves of his rut are strong, surging through his body and making him weak and dizzy in turns.

Not to mention his wandering hands, groping and pawing— weakly but stubbornly— at Keith.

Like he's trying to hold back, but he also can't resist.

Keith likes to think it's because it's him. Because they're close. Because there's something between them. Because Lance might feel a fraction of what he feels.

But he knows it could also just be his rut talking.

Drugged out on hormones, Keith is a warm body with a scent that Lance is familiar with and trusts. Alpha or not, he knows that Lance's body is getting increasingly desperate for relief and friction and Keith is _right here_.

With a steady arm wrapped around him, Keith steers them through the lesser used hallways. Through dusty servants stairs. Outside and through back alleyways.

When they pass by others, Keith growls at them, emitting a scent that's as threatening and commanding as he can. Hopes that it’s acrid enough to overshadow Lance’s.

His eyes are like fire, fangs extended as he bares his teeth with a snarl, sparks licking at his tongue. His wings grow, draping around Lance like a shield. Dark red scales ripple out across his skin.

And when someone doesn't heed his warning— or doesn't leave fast enough— Lance stiffens, snarling lowly, claws digging into Keith as he leans into him almost— protective? Possessive? Seeking comfort? Seeking safety?

He doesn't know. Doesn't know if it's to hide himself or to keep them from approaching Keith. It makes him dizzy. Makes him uncertain.

He calls out when they reach Lance's home— a nicer villa carved into the mountainside with a private cave system attached. Lance's family spills out, immediately recognizing the scent.

They rush out to help, but Lance won't let Keith go, clings tight. Too tight.

Keith can see the apprehension and confusion on his family's faces as they try to calm him— glancing between them— little worry lines forming around their mouths— furrowed brows—

And Keith... hates it. Hates the judgement. But he understands their worry.

Lance's attachment to another alpha, especially in his rut, isn't normal. It’s not _done_. Ever. It's... concerning. For them. For a family that has notoriety and reputation and expectations.

Nevertheless, they let Keith guide Lance through their home and into his room, finally disentangling himself as he drops off Lance onto his bed.

However, he hadn’t anticipated how hard this would be. Distancing himself. Leaving Lance.

His heart _tears_ and his body _aches_ as Lance reaches for him, whining when his claws find nothing but air.

But Lance's family is watching, and Keith doesn't belong here. So he forces himself to go.

Lance, however, isn't having it.

He _snarls_. Launching himself off the bed. Moving for Keith at an alpha speed— but his brothers catch him. Wrestle him down. They yell at Keith to _go_.

But Keith can't bring his feet to move. Frozen with his heart in his throat.

He can’t leave. Not when Lance is looking at him like _that_. All desperate. Eyes wild and pleading. Not when he _whines_ so softly, so pitifully, and something sour enters his scent— _rejection_.

It smells like rejection and looks like heart wrenching sorrow.

So Keith makes a decision. Something impulsive. Something he probably shouldn't do but does anyway because he has to leave, but can't leave Lance like this. It's not good for his rut to have these negative emotions, no matter how irrational. Nothing is rational in a rut, and Keith’s perceived rejection could make him spiral. It could make him sick.

So Keith rips off a strip of his clothing. A swatch of fabric that's not too large, but not at all small. Enough for Lance to nuzzle into if he needs to.

He wipes it across his neck, soaking it with his scent, before kneeling down and giving it to Lance.

The way Lance's eyes light up at the gesture— the low, rumbling sound he makes in his throat— the way he watches Keith leave—

It haunts him long after.

Carries him all the way home.

Won't leave his thoughts, even when he's panting and exhausted. Cocks aching and raw, yet still stubbornly half hard. Covered in his own seed. Dried cum and sweat on his skin as he lies on his bed. Staring at the ceiling. Taunted by the smell of lance lingering on his clothes.

* * *

The following days are a waking nightmare.

He’s haunted by Lance, in his thoughts and in his dreams. Memories playing, and playing again. A never ending loop. What he looked like within the grips of his rut. How he smelled. How he clung to Keith. The outline of his cocks in the tight and fitting formal attire.

Wondering how he’s feeling… imagining _exactly_ what he’s doing… if he’d take his cocks one at a time or at the same time. Each in a hand? Two in one?

More than once he wakes in the middle of the night, caught in a cold sweat, chest heaving with every breath, desperately trying to cling to the ghost of Lance’s touch from fading dreams.

He catches himself daydreaming often, coming back to himself half hard and ashamed, hoping that no one noticed the shift in his scent.

He's more aggressive in training without Lance to calm him down. More reckless. More impulsive. More dangerous. To the point where Shiro has to pull him away and tell him to take a flight and _cool it_ before he seriously hurts someone.

He’s not sure if it’s just Lance’s rut that’s put him on edge, or if he’s always been like this and Lance has just always kept him stable.

As the days pass in a strange haze of restlessness, aggression, and aggravating horniness, he never goes far from Lance's home. If he stops paying attention, he’ll end up walking toward it. Pulled by the invisible force of his instincts.

But he always catches himself before he ventures too close.

He can't forget the looks Lance's family gave him. The looks of the people they ran into on the streets. Confusion. Apprehension. Wariness. Nothing harsh like disgust— not yet— but it hurts all the same.

Reminds him that what they're doing— what they're _almost_ doing— what they’re tiptoeing around— the path they’re on—

It's not _right_. Alphas aren't meant to be with alphas. It's not _done_ that way. They’re too aggressive together. They can't reproduce. Even an alpha female and alpha male will have a low birth rate.

And especially in a family as high as Lance’s, there are expectations of him. As an alpha. To find an omega mate. Carry on the line. To produce strong heirs for the clan.

Keith can't do that for him.

He'll never be a soft, sweet omega. He's alpha, through and through. Hard edges. Hard body. Aggressive. Strong. Stubborn. He's wild fire incarnate, and he'll never be a cozy little hearth fire.

And he may not want that omega mate life— may not want that sickeningly sweet scent and soft body by his side— but... what if Lance _does_? His family definitely wants that for him. He’s one of the most eligible young single alphas, and the clan thrives on the anticipation of who he’ll choose to court.

Hell, most omegas in the clan are already preparing to present themselves for when he starts looking. Already vying for his attention. Trying to catch his eye.

It’s only a matter of time until someone does.

Until someone else is the center of Lance’s attention.

Until any ember of hope he dares to harbor about what they might be is snuffed out for good.

* * *

It only gets worse.

Or better?

Depending how he looks at it. It feels like both. A twisted version of heaven and hell, wrapped into one thrilling and cruel package.

Because after Lance’s rut, when he returns to his life and they fall back into their usual patterns, everything goes back to normal, for the most part. Everything is the same, except for one thing.

That strip of cloth.

The impulsive decision Keith had made to give a rut-crazed Lance a token to hold his scent to calm him down— it’s come back to bite him in the ass.

Because Lance now wears it.

He has it folded and wrapped around his wrist. It's subtle. No one thinks of it twice. Keith doubts it even smells like him anymore after going through Lance's rut. All it is is an accessory. It’s not uncommon among their tribe to tie cloth in areas.

No one is the wiser

Except Keith. Keith knows. _Knows_ that dark red fabric was his. Drenched in his scent and given to his best friend to help him through his rut. And instead of tossing it out, or giving it back, Lance is _wearing it_.

They don't talk about it, but Lance knows what he's doing.

He gives Keith this _look_ sometimes when he adjusts it. When he lifts his wrist to his mouth to drag his lips across it. Eyes all lidded and dark and sparking with crackling fire that ignites something in Keith's chest—

Because Lance is wearing it like a token.

Like a courting gift. Like it's something special between them, taking them to the next step in a normal courtship— but they're not normal. He's not an omega that Keith gave his scent to. His an _alpha_ in his own right.

And Lance's family knows.

They were there when Keith gave it to him. But Lance doesn't seem to care. Ignores their worried glances in favor of giving Keith heated looks.

And it twists Keith up inside, conflicted and torn, but he can't help the swell of pride at seeing it.

Lance carries on as normal as normal can be, but Keith is going _insane_ , seeing that token on Lance's wrist Because despite knowing better, the way Lance is treating it has made Keith start to think of it as such— as a token. Against his skin. Knowing that Lance is doing this on purpose just fires him up more, drives him crazier.

And Lance just watches him fall apart.

All coy and mischievous.

Cocky and smug.

Delighting in Keith’s torture.

And yet he doesn’t treat it like a joke, but as a joy. Like their own private secret. A dangerous, naughty, little secret.

* * *

It all comes to a head in the worst possible way.

After a month of Lance's teasing— of wearing that fucking token (because that’s what it is, isn’t it? Even if he never meant it to be, it’s how Lance is taking it and Keith doesn’t mind) every single day— of Lance meeting Keith's gaze with eyes that say far too much— of touches that are getting bolder and bolder—

They're training. As they do. Getting out their natural aggression. Honing their skills as knights. Preparing to defend the territory lines.

And as a bonus, getting to touch each other without it being strange.

And that is the problem.

They're fighting. People have gathered. The two of them always seem to draw a crowd. Two young, strong alphas holding nothing back. Half shifted and graceful and fierce. No punches pulled.

Objectively, he can see how it’s quite a show.

This time, Keith thinks he's won, can taste the victory on his tongue, hot and fierce. He grins, teeth sharp and wicked, reaching for Lance and preparing to use his body weight to swing him to the ground—

But then things are flipped.

Lance is good at that. At reading Keith. At turning the tide.

Keith ends up with his face in the dirt, cheek pressed to the ground, a hand fisted in his hair and holding him there.

Lance is behind him, pressed up against him. His chest is to Keith's back. Lance's legs pressed against his. Their tails entangled. His wings are pinned. He's half shifted, body writhing, fangs bared as his hisses—

And Lance growls, low and demanding, pushing into him.

His grip tightens, digging Keith into the ground. Rocks dig at his flesh, his bruises ache and skin is littered with minor cuts, but it all hurts so _good_. It’s all so _satisfying_.

And Lance... Lance is practically _mounting_ him from behind. Holding him in place, hips pressed flush against his ass.

It's all so much— too much—

There's the burn of the fight, of his stubborn pride, of interest curling low in his gut before igniting and surging through his chest, tingling across his limbs and bubbling out as a low groan of a whine from his throat—

And that heat— the sizzling need— he recognizes it. It’s unmistakable. Even though the last time it came over him it was painful, and this— _this_ — this is anything but.

His rut.

It surges through him in a tidal wave, hitting hard like a punch to the gut. He pushes back, and Lance pushes forward, grinding against him instinctively, no doubt to keep Keith down, but instead Keith groans—

Cock twitching with interest, and Lance—

He freezes.

Body suddenly going tight and taut above Keith, still as stone and just as heavy. As Keith's heady rut scent hits him— washes over him— _drowns him_.

A snarl escapes him before he can stop it, grip tightening on Keith. Focus zeroing in on him— on Keith— presented before him— squirming— needy— hard and hot and _wanting_.

But as Lance starts to lose himself, realization is dawning on Keith.

Cold fear and sour dread are building, colored with white hot shame and embarrassment, cutting right through his horny haze and surging rut—

Because his rut was just triggered by _another alpha_ , and it happened in front of _everyone_. Everyone who was watching them spar, like two hot blooded strong alphas, and then as soon as he's pinned and mounted, his rut starts and—

it's too much— it's too much—

There are eyes on him, watching him, whispering about him, seeing him in this position, smelling what Lance does to him—

Panic.

All he knows is panic.

It collides and convulses and swells into this all consuming need to _run_. To _escape_. To _hide_ until he's safe.

Instinct take over.

Strength surges as fire burns through him, and he throws Lance off of him as his body rips apart, shifting violently into a coiling, writing red scaled dragon.

He gets to his feet and hisses, breathing fire to get everyone to step away, leaving Lance scrambling backwards—

And then he launches himself into the air. Wings pumping furiously. He has to get away. Has to go. Has to fly somewhere safe to ride out his rut away from prying eyes.

_Safe. Safe. Safe. Safe._

He's always been known to be fast, and he pushes his limits. Flying far and fast, diving deep into the mountain range and finding a half hidden cave to hide in.

He spends his rut there, alone and miserable, aggravated and angry at nothing and everything. It’s his first run without pain, and yet he can’t bring himself to enjoy the pleasure.

Shiro finds him days later, claw marks marring the cave walls. He gives Keith his space— not wanting to intrude on another alpha's territory in a rut despite being family— but lets Keith know through his comforting scent that he's there, that Keith isn't alone.

He stays nearby. Leaves food for Keith. Guards Keith while he rides out what is arguably the worst week of his life.

* * *

When it's all said and done... Keith doesn't want to go back.

He tells Shiro everything.

How he feels. About Lance. About omegas. About mates in general.

How he and Lance have danced around each other. How they shared Keith's rut once before. What happened with Lance's last rut.

He doesn't want to go back— doesn't think he can. Not after that shameful act. Not now that everyone knows how he reacts to Lance.

It's been building for a while. This decision. Knowing that he could never be what Lance needs. Could never be the mate he deserves. Could never be Lance's omega.

And he's been holding off because he's enjoyed this game, but this has just been a wake up call.

And it’s time for their game to end before they do something that can’t be undone.

* * *

He leaves without saying goodbye.

He stays outside of the city and lets Shiro make the arrangements and tell Lance.

And Shiro— bless the heavens and the eternal fire for him because Keith doesn’t think he could bear leaving Lance _and_ Shiro— makes the decision to come with him.

Together, they join the scouting groups. The knights who travel around the outskirts of their clan's territory. Protecting. Guarding.

He goes to the front lines where they push back enemy clans and keep their people safe. Where they fight the ever encroaching galra clan, keeping them at bay.

Because he doesn't know how he can face the clan after that. He’s afraid to face Lance.

He doesn't ask Shiro how Lance took the news, and Shiro doesn't offer to tell.

He hopes this time apart will help them both. Help clear their heads. Maybe this thing between them— this simmering heat and fatal attraction— maybe it's just been because of their closeness. Just hormones. Just their rivalry heating up and mixing up in their heads.

He hopes that maybe, just maybe, being apart like this, growing on their own, will help put things into perspective.

He knows in his head that it's the right thing to do.

But his heart, his body, and his soul, ache at the distance.

* * *

Keith is… miserable.

Restless.

Numb.

He travels with Shiro and a group of knights along the clan's territory lines. Hunts. Tracks. Fights when he needs to. Trains. Eats. Sleeps.

Everything feels... dull. Gray. He's aggravated and on edge. He keeps himself separated from everyone, though he’s not sure if it’s for his sake or theirs.

He's quiet. He's always scowling. He snarls when people get too close or things take too long. Easily irritated. He can see the way the others look at him. The way they walk around eggshells. He hates it. It only makes things worse.

But as quickly as his anger comes, it goes out in a puff of smoke. Left smoldering and miserable.

Lonely.

Without Lance's scent, he can't fully relax. He feels tightly wound. Always a second away from breaking, but never broken. Never able to fully breathe, but still breathing.

Shiro's presence brings him some comfort, but it's not the same.

He throws himself into his duties. He protects their territory. From other clans, other beasts, humans, magic users, roving bands of galra left over after the collapse of their clan, corrupt and insane and little more than rabid beasts.

He dives into it all. Loses himself in his dragon and the fight. Stays shifted more and more often because he feels less vulnerable in this form. To the point where he’s heard Shiro say he’s worried Keith will be more beast than man.

He still aches for Lance, but it's easier to sleep.

He’s worried Lance has moved on, yet hopes for it all the same.

He hopes Lance is alright.

He hopes he’s forgiven.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was going to update tomorrow. But I've spent all day in pain (cramps), and haven't gotten any work done. So since tomorrow is going to be a catch-up day, I figured I'd update today so I don't have to worry about it tomorrow. So surprise! Early update. 
> 
> This is where things start to get steamy. I usually warn for where smut is in fics, but... I've warned you this fic is porn-with-a-long-emotional-build-up, so... yeah. You should expect it, because that's the purpose of this fic. 
> 
> _**Trigger Warning:** This chapter contains major character injury._ Please read with care. 
> 
> Happy reading!

Keith is most definitely _not_ forgiven, and Lance is decidedly _not_ alright.

He’s _mad_.

He’s fucking _pissed off_.

He’s _frustrated_ and _angry_ and _irritable_ and _irritated_ , and wholly in a bad mood all the time.

As one of his sisters so lovingly put it: it’s like a porcupine crawled up his ass and decided to make it a den.

His parents think it’s just hormones and the stress of being a young, unmated alpha.

His brothers think he just needs to get off.

Only Hunk calls it for what it is: _heartbreak_. But he doesn’t even want to face the reality of that. He’s too busy being _mad_ because it’s far easier and far less painful than the alternative.

He just doesn't get it. He doesn’t _get it_.

He knows what he and Keith have is special. It _means something_. It's not just made up in his head or in his heart. There's _something there_.

He's felt it. He's _seen_ it reflected in Keith. He's smelled it in Keith's goddamn scent and the way their scents combine, heavenly and _perfect_.

He doesn't give a _flying fuck_ that they're both alphas. And— okay, so _maybe_ for a while there, he had been maybe a _little_ concerned about it. Who wouldn't be? Two alphas in a relationship?

It's not a thing. It’s not done. He’s never seen a mated alpha male pair and has been told his entire life that it’s because they just don’t work. Alpha males and females can mate— he’s seen a couple pairs— but it’s so rare.

And it's not just because they can't procreate.

Two omegas can work. Betas can work with anyone. There's a lower chance of reproduction, but they _work_. But two male alphas? There's a heavy stigma around it, and for good reason.

Alphas have too many strong hormones flying around. Too much aggression. Too much pride that leads to clashing. Too much rage and unfiltered violence. Without a calmer influence, alphas just energize those hormones, make them worse and stronger.

There needs to be a balance. A calming influence. A stability and grounding to keep the alpha from over stressing themself.

It can be good for passion, but not for a relationship. Not for mating. Even passion between alphas can be violent and unsatisfactory. It can lead to resentment. Hate fucking. Belittlement. Wounded pride.

And thus, the stigma around it. Worst than with omega pairs.

Not illegal, but heavily taboo.

So, _yeah_ , okay, Lance was a little worried about his feelings for Keith when they both presented as alphas. Obviously he didn't think it was going to work out. Not with everything he's grown up hearing. Not with his family wanting him to find a good omega mate to breed.

(Which has often led him to having thoughts of breeding Keith, and hell, if _that_ ain’t something. Especially with the way Keith had rut up against him, presented so prettily when he was pinned.)

But he's come to terms that that isn't what he wants— an omega, that is.

He wants _Keith_. He's _always_ wanted Keith. From when they were kids. From the first moment he saw that scrappy, scrawny refugee marmora kid glaring from Shiro's shadow, Lance was enraptured, intrigued, _craving_ his attention.

He fought for it. Fought _Keith_ for it. In any way he could. Fought his way to the center of Keith's world, even if that was through annoyance, and then shifted the script until things became softer. Until they became friends. Close friends. Best friends.

He wasn't kidding, what he said to Keith when they were young. If he presented as an omega, he wanted Keith to court him. Fantasized about it. Warred about whether he wanted that or to be an alpha himself.

Thing is, turns out after much internal struggle, Lance doesn't care if he's an omega or not.

He wants Keith to court him. End of story. Full stop. No matter what he’s presented as. Alpha, beta, omega. He wants to be Keith's. He wants Keith to be _his_.

And he's tired of worrying about what the clan will think. Fuck them all. Fuck tradition.

Because with Keith? He doesn't feel _any_ of that aggressive alpha nonsense. Competitive? Yeah. Prideful? Definitely. Stubborn? To a fault. But they've always been like that. Keith's scent doesn't rile him up like other alphas. It's an entirely different kind of riling.

Keith doesn't make him aggressive and angry. Sure, their spars get violent, but they still _care_ about each other. They make sure not to seriously injure. They help each other afterward. It's all fun to them. A little pleasurable. Igniting this flame of sexual tension.

If anything, Keith's scent and presence actually _relaxes_ him. Makes him feel comforted. Grounded. Stable. Like he can breathe for once. Let the posturing drop. Just... be gentle and vulnerable, without worry of judgement.

Isn’t that what he should find in a mate?

With Keith, he doesn't have to be a big strong alpha. He can just be _Lance_. And he appreciates that so much. Loves it. Can't find that kind of comfort with anyone else. He’s pretty sure no amount of calming omega hormones and sweet scents could do the same thing.

Keith is what he wants. And he's pretty sure Keith wants him too. The signs have all been there. Keith doesn't pull away from the touches. Keith loves his scent— thought it’s amusing to watch him try to hide that little tidbit. Keith _trusts_ him.

And what's between them has been growing. Exponentially.

From the moment Lance spent Keith's first rut with him, they've been steadily building. A tension between them growing thick and taut and just waiting to snap.

Then Keith was there for Lance in his rut. Not to touch him or relieve him— though he wanted that more than anything at the time.

But Keith protected him. Got him somewhere safe. Got him home. Kept others away from him. And while it ripped Lance's hormone addled heart out that he left, he gave Keith a scrap of cloth. Torn right from his own shirt. Saturated with his scent.

Now that certainly wasn't done. For nesting omegas? Sure. Friends and family will give scraps of scent to add to the nest. But to alphas in a rut? Aggressive, territorial, needy alphas? Only their mates gave them scent tokens. Or potential mates. Partners.

And Keith gave him one.

It meant something. He knows it did. Keith won't admit to it directly, but Lance knows it meant Keith feels the same heat Lance does. His family knows it, too, though he avoids conversation about it. Ignores their worried looks when he starts wearing Keith's token daily.

He sees what it's been doing to Keith. Loves it. Revels in it. Loves being at the center of Keith's attention. Loves driving him crazy. Loves how the token still, very faintly, smells like Keith. It's not just to tease Keith. Not just to flirt— though these are quite the bonus. The token actually brings him great comfort.

And then.

 _And then_.

And then Keith goes in a goddamn rut while Lance has him mercilessly pinned to the dirt— body draped hard over his— practically mounting him— fingers digging into his hair— throat exposed—

And Keith's rut hit him so hard that the surge in his scent was _dizzying_.

Pressed against him like that— his hips flush to that beautifully round ass— Lance felt his own body react instantly. Cocks already hardening with interest as he rubs up against that ass, presented to him and pinned at his mercy, ripe for the taking—

He admits that he lost himself in that moment. So caught up in _Keith, Keith, Keith_. His scent had caught him off guard, still high off the aggressive hormones of sparring, high on his victory, high on having Keith so close— it caught him off guard.

So he doesn't blame Keith for running. Not really. It was an embarrassing situation. Not only to enter a rut in front of a crowd, not only on the training grounds, but while his rival and best friend and an _alpha_ have him pinned like a little bitch.

So yeah, he gives Keith his space. Doesn't blame him for fully shifting out and thrashing about like a rabid beast before flying off to who knows where. Ruts and heats are private things, and when left feeling vulnerable like that, the beast takes over until they're safe.

He was a little surprised that Keith had gone off to the mountains to ride out his rut, but he suspects the shame of the moment has a lot to do with that. He wanted to go after him, but knew how it would look. If they're gonna cross taboo lines, he's gotta be smart about it.

And charging after Keith in a horny rush in front of everyone definitely isn't smart. Besides, Keith is more than a passion fuck. He wants to do this right. Wants to treat him right. Just because they're two alphas doesn't mean he can't court Keith right. Or be courted.

So he gives Keith space to ride it out. Fully intended on meeting up with him when he came back. Helping him lick that wounded pride. Cooing and easing him into releasing that embarrassment. Letting him know that Lance really fucking liked that he set Keith off like that.

That he really wouldn’t mind having Keith in that position again.

But then Shiro comes back with the news that Keith _isn’t coming back_? He's going off to join the front line scouting party? Just fucking _abandoning_ him like that? Without telling him _himself_?

Yeah. Lance is _pissed_.

So pissed that Shiro has to bodily stop him from storming off into the skies to hunt Keith down himself— both of them shifting and Shiro using his massive dragon form to pin down Lance’s, writhing and hissing in anger.

He convinces Lance to just... give Keith some space. Let him breathe. That he'll come back and they'll be better for it _blah, blah, blah_.

So Lance stays behind while Keith runs off with knights and plays renegade dragon.

Protecting the clan and leaving Lance to live his life like a self sacrificing asshole. Probably thinking Lance hates what happened or is embarrassed by it or something equally _deranged_.

And Lance lets him.

Lets him run off and have his space and figure out whatever he needs to figure out.

Because _he’s_ a self sacrificing asshole, too.

* * *

For _months_ he's in a _perpetually_ bad mood.

There's a dark aura hovering around him. He's needlessly aggressive. Slamming doors. Hitting walls. He doesn't hurt people, but he snaps. _Everything_ irritates him. Grating on his nerves. Driving him crazy.

His dragon features are heavily out. He's not calm enough to keep them away. His emotions are too raw and haywire, and so he's always in a state of semi-shift. Horns out. Tail out, trashing behind him. Claws curled and sharp. Fangs hissing. Scales spotting skin.

The air around him is almost permanently cold. He's an ice dragon, with some crystal on his mother’s side. Breathes blue fire, cold enough to burn. And it starts to radiate around him. He knows his scent is sour and bitter and acidic, a putrid warning for others to stay away.

In training, he's too violent. Too aggressive. More than alpha's should be— when they're in control. But he's not in control. He's pissed and irritated, and it gets to the point where he has to be told to leave the sparring grounds before he seriously injures someone.

People steer clear of him in the streets. He doesn't go to diplomatic meetings. Even the line of omegas wanting to present to him seem to be scared away. His family is worried, and he tries not to snap at them. Instead he just isolates himself. Moping. Doesn't let them see him cry.

And his ruts are the _worst_. They _hurt_. He's extra aggressive. Upset. Unable to control himself as he thrashes around his room. Eventually he has to leave, ride them out in the woods where he can go full dragon. Screaming his fury with blue flames.

He ruts and rubs his cocks raw, but nothing brings relief. Nothing is works. And that just makes him _more_ frustrated.

And the worst part of it all?

The token Keith gave him doesn't smell like him anymore.

* * *

He’s in his family’s private cave system when the messenger comes.

Veronica finds him there, in one of the back tunnels, crouched down and tending to his own private batch of crystals.

His family grows them. Feeding their natural energy into the earth to start the seeds and fueling them with their fire. Having ice dragon blood as well, their crystals are cool to the touch, swirling blue and unique. They make for fine jewelry and statues. Keeps his family rolling in riches.

Lance has never been big on the family crystal trade, preferring to be a knight, but he has his own little garden. Had once thought he’d present one to Keith as a gift. Still has hopes of that, if he’s being honest.

He smells Veronica long before he hears her— her smell like a rolling storm before the rain, surging down the tunnel and proceeding her soft, but clipped foot steps. She’s moving quickly. In a hurry. He braces himself for some sort of admonishing.

“Lance,” she says, breathless and wary, which is… odd. The anxiety in her scent is sour, causing his hair to stand on end.

He turns slowly, looking over his shoulder, eyes narrowing. “What?”

“There’s a messenger for you.” Voice carefully neutral. Brow pinched. Lips pressed tight into a stern frown. Something is… not right.

But Lance isn’t in the mood for messengers. Nor is he in the mood to entertain some noble family. Some presented Omega. Or the guard. Or even Allura. Hell, he doesn’t even want to see Hunk right now.

“Take a message and send them away,” he scoffs, turning back to his little garden. Running his fingertips over the crystals’ smooth sides and sharp edges. “I’m busy.”

“He’s from the front lines.”

Lance freezes— body rigid and breath stilling in his lungs.

“Shiro sent him.”

His eyes close. Bracing himself. He doesn’t know what to expect. Hopes and fears twist together into a knotted ball of anxiety and anticipation, heavy in his chest.

“It’s Keith,” she says, and Lance’s stomach flips. But her tone still gives nothing away.

“And…?” He asks, carefully blank, though he can feel his voice about to crack. He licks dry lips.

He waits…

Heart lodging his his throat—

Pulse rapid in his veins—

Head dizzy with possibilities and questions—

“He’s been hurt.”

“ _What?_ ” He whips around, rising to his feet. Arms held out and fingers curled into claws, half poised in a defensive crouch. He can feel his fangs, sharp against his tongue. Can hear the way his voice hisses between his teeth.

Veronica doesn’t flinch. If anything, her expression hardens. “Shiro sent word,” she repeats. “Keith was wounded in a fight.”

 _Why?_ The reflexive question is at the tip of his tongue. _How?_ He desperately wants to know. Instead, he asks, “How bad…?”

Something shifts in Veronica’s eyes. Something that makes his heart sink. “It’s… bad, Lance,” she whispers, aching and sympathetic but strong. Sturdy. Her voice alone keeping him anchored while his head spins. She knows how Lance feels about Keith. She’s the only one who’s been supportive about it. The only one who understands what it’s like for an alpha to want another. “They fear it’s a mortal wound, but Keith won’t let anyone close enough to inspect it. Not even Shiro. He’s holed himself away, and Shiro fears it’s to di—“

She doesn’t get to finish.

Lance is shoving past her.

Rushing— _running_ — _sprinting_ — down the tunnels and back toward their home. Runs right to the front entryway, shoving past family and servants alike, until he finds the messenger. Dressed as a warrior. Dirty from travel. Looking awkward and out of place in the noble family’s foyer.

Lance marches up to him. Grabs him by the front of his leathers— haphazardly put on after he had arrived, no doubt— and pulls him in close, hissing in his face, “ _Where?_ ”

The man stutters, eyes wide and frantic in the face of Lance’s fury. “To the north west,” he finally manages to sputter. “Just past the mountains by the river valley—“

“ _Keep up_ ,” Lance snaps, shoving past him and practically throwing himself out the door, stumbling into the open air.

The frustration he’s felt for _months_ — at Keith, at himself, at their circumstances— immediately shifts into something desperate and frigid in his gut. A new kind of fury overtakes him, burns across his skin like ice as he shifts— uncaring that his clothes tear and flutter like petals to the ground.

He launches into the sky without a word to his family (though he’s sure Veronica will fill them in) and takes off without another thought.

He's fast. He's desperate. Panic is gripped tight at his heart as well as a _rage_ that Keith would go off and _die_ without him.

Not today.

Not any day.

Not while Lance can help it.

The messenger can barely keep up. Lance is too fast. Pushing himself to the limit. Until his wings are sore and his back aches, sharp pin pricks digging deep as his muscles scream. But he keeps going. Keeps pushing. Adrenaline hot in his veins and fear like ice around his heart.

By the time he lands at their encampment, his body aches. Everything is sore. His lungs are burning. But he doesn't care. Eyes wild as looks around frantically, half shifted and hunched.

A wild animal. The people around scatter as he hits the ground hard, throwing up dust and dirt. He scents them— immediately recognizes them as his own clan— but his eyes search for—

Shiro is there in an instant.

Before Lance can even demand to know where Keith is, Shiro is tossing him a spare set of clothes, boots, and leathers. Snapping a quick and curt, "This way,” before leading him away from the camp, through the woods, towards the mountains.

Steps quick and urgent. Lance's pulse spiking. Body wound tight with nervous anticipation. He follows, heart in his throat.

They climb up a path, through thick foliage. Lance can see the evidence of Keith’s desperate and frantic passage: the trampled bushes and splintered trees. The dried patches of blood.

When they reach a cave, Lance immediately knows Keith is inside.

The entire area around it is scorched and burned. Vegetation smoldering. Claw marks scored deep into the rock.

Shiro stops before they get close to the entrance, brow furrowed with worry and strain.

He looks far older than he should. Smaller than he should. Gaunt and pale as the fear for his adopted brother sets heavily in the lines on his face.

"It was one of those rogue galra druids. Bitter and half mad after the war."

"They're still alive?"

"Yes, and dangerous."

"The druid died, but several of his claws broke off when he fought Keith. They're still imbedded in him. They're corrupted and tainted, and they're keeping him from healing naturally. But they're repressing his sanity and he won't let anyone close enough to help. Not even me."

There’s something there. Hidden in his voice. Something pained, but something that acknowledges that despite refusing his own family, Lance might stand a chance. It’s an acknowledgement— a trust and an acceptance— that would have made Lance’s chest swell with joy under any other circumstances.

He swallows hard. Heart tearing as it pounds against his ribs. He nods and moves toward the cave.

Keith's scent is strong, wafting out of the cave. It's so familiar, hitting Lance hard, and making his knees feel weak. But it's not _right_. It tastes heavy and metallic on his tongue.

It smells _wrong_. So wrong. It smells like pain. It smells like _death_.

Lance's steps speed up as he gets closer to the cave. He can hear the heavy breathing, sounding ragged and raspy. Uneven. Pained.

He finds Keith inside. Curled up against the stone wall. Full dragon. Beautiful red scales dulled and murky. He looks up when Lance enters, teeth bared and snarl at his lips. It's vicious and angry. Hissing as his body starts to curl and he struggles to his feet, pulling away.

Eyes glazed over and wild. As he stumbles to his feet, Lance can see the wound. The angry, jagged slash marks across his soft underbelly. Still oozing blood that's far too dark to be healthy. It stains the floor of the cave. It stinks like rot and poison.

"Oh, Keith..." Lance whispers, pausing as he takes it all in.

At the sound of his voice, he sees a flicker of something in Keith's eyes. It's gone in a moment, but he sees the recognition.

"It's me, man." He takes a cautious step forward, edging into the cave.

The snarls stop. Keith's nostrils flare as he scents the air. Lance barely has control over himself right now, but he tries to make his scent stronger, calming, pumping everything he's feeling into it.

Keith starts to relax. Instantly. And despite it all, Lance smiles.

"Yeah, that's right. Just me." He coos, soft and reassuring, more confident as he creeps into the cave. Keith settles back on the ground, sighing heavily. Head lying down, eyes lidded. Body rolling, not meant to expose his wound, but to get pressure off of it.

He watches Lance carefully, but the aggression and fight has left him. A soft whine escapes him. Soft. Pitiful. Tired.

Lance lays a hand on Keith's neck. Runs his hand gently along the scales on Keith's jaw. "Oh, Keith... what did you do..."

He bites at his lip, eyeing the wound. Keith sighs, trailing off into another soft whine. Then his eyes close. Any sort of tension leaving him.

Seeing Keith like that. Vulnerable. Bleeding. _Defeated_. It makes Lance's stomach roll.

He takes a deep breath— practically gagging on the rotten scent of the wound— and steels himself for what he has to do.

He lengths his own claws.

Keith tenses as Lance gets near his wound, but he doesn't protest. He grits his teeth and hisses in pain, claws scraping at stone, as Lance sets to work digging out the broken claws.

He screams and howls as the claws are dug out of tender, rotting flesh. Lance tosses them aside with disgust. He steels himself, determination hardening his nerves, as he cuts out the rotting flesh from the wound. All the dead, poisoned flesh and scales.

Keith’s blood burns his hands.

It must hurt like a bitch.

But Keith doesn't hurt him and doesn't stop him.

Lance hates doing it. Hates hearing Keith howl and scream and trash in pain. The whole time he coos softly, this deep rumbling sound that alphas can make to soothe their mates. He whispers gentle encouragements and runs bloodied hands over Keith's scales.

And when he's done, everything is a mess. The cave is a mess. They're both covered in blood. The wound is bleeding profusely, but it's fresh and clean, and that means that this time it can heal properly. But still, Keith is weak. Weak and tired and panting against the dirt.

Keith can't shift to his smaller, more vulnerable form if he's going to have any chance of survival. So lance shifts to his dragon form.

They're nearly the same size. Lance is a little longer. Keith is a little bulkier. Lance's tail is longer. Keith's wings are bigger. Keith has four horns. Lance has two but they're longer and curvier.

Keith's scales are red and shadowed by a purple so dark they seem black. Lance's are blue, highlighted with the crystal blue opals of his mixed heritage.

Keith’s scales are rounded in shape. Lance’s are more jagged.

Lance's fire is cold as ice, but it still burns flesh. He breathes on the wound, trying to be gentle as he attempts to singe the wound closed at least enough to slow the bleeding.

Keith grits his teeth, groans low, but allows it to happen.

Then he nudges Keith with his snout, slowly easing him off the ground and onto his feet

Movement is a struggle, and Keith complains weakly through it, but Lance is determined to get him out of the puddle of his own gore. He supports Keith as they both shuffle to a clean, dry part of the cave. And there they both collapse

Lance curls his long body around Keith's. Blocking him from view of anyone who dares go near the mouth of the cave. A barrier to keep him safe and protected when he's in such a vulnerable weak state.

And Keith, finally, relaxes.

He falls asleep quickly. Breaths still labored, but peaceful. Lance licks his wound, keeping it clean as the bleeding slowly stops.

And then his own exhaustion takes hold— physical, mental, and emotional— and, curled tight around Keith, he falls into his own slumber. More content than he’s been in months.

* * *

Dragons heal quickly, but it'll still be a long road to recovery. At least now they know Keith will survive.

And throughout the long healing process, Lance is there.

He hunts for Keith, knowing he'll need to eat plenty to keep his strength up. Keith is tense the entire time Lance is gone, relaxing the moment he enters the cave. Lance’s heart melts as he sees Keith go practically boneless with relief, limping across the cave to greet him and trying (and failing) to keep his excitement contained, massive body wiggling like a pup.

They spend much of the days curled together. Large, scaled bodies wrapped as tightly as they can while still being careful of Keith's wound.

Lance isn't shy about scenting him. Nuzzling the scales around his face, under his jaw, and the soft skin of his neck.

Keith just closes his eyes and eats it up, rumbling softly in his throat. And when Lance is done, Keith shyly, almost hesitantly, nuzzles him back. Almost like he's not sure how. Like he's afraid Lance might actually pull away.

It's endearing as hell, and Lance hums happily.

As the days pass and Keith heals, he becomes restless.

Typical, really. He gets adorably grumpy that Lance won't let him leave the cave, going so far as to bodily block the entrance and firmly (playfully) nip at Keith until he lays back down before happily curling around him.

Keith is disgruntled at the babying— the feeding, the grooming, the constant nuzzling, licking his wound, scenting— if he didn't love it so much. Lance can read him easily, and while he’s embarrassed about it, he does little to hide his own contentment at being the center of Lance’s attention. And even if he tried, his scent would give him away in a heartbeat.

And honestly? Lance _loves_ taking care of Keith. Loves being the provider for a time. The strong alpha who can prove he can care for and protect Keith in his time of need.

Prove to him that this— _they_ — can work.

He wants to prove to Keith that he has nothing to worry about with Lance around. That he can be vulnerable and weak around Lance— that he can _enjoy_ it— and not feel threatened by his alpha presence. That he can allow himself to be cared for. That he _deserves_ to be cared for.

When Keith has healed enough, Lance escorts him out of the cave. Lets him stretch his wings and walk around. Ever watchful and wary. Eyes snapping to every sound.

When he hovers to closely, Keith growls and nips at him. Lance just playfully hits him with his tail.

They have no words in these forms, but they don’t need them.

They have touch. They have sound. They have scent. They have body language. They have their instincts.

They have each other.

And that’s enough.

* * *

* * *

When he's healed enough to try shifting, Lance shifts first. He opens his mouth to speak, but only a hoarse croak slips past his lips before he’s pursing them shut with a furrowed brow.

He understands. It’s been a while since they were human. But thankfully, Lance doesn’t need words.

He hovers nearby, hands flitting across Keith’s scales, shifting anxiously as he waits. Arms open. Eyes encouraging. Smile welcoming.

Keith breathes through the lingering ache. Closing his eyes. Preparing himself. Gathering strength. Picturing his human form and letting his grip on his dragon go lax. Letting his scales slip away. Almost sighing in relief as his bones crunch and splinter, body burning to ash in the heat of his flames before reforming.

And when he’s human again, his knees are wobbly and weak.

They nearly give out, but Lance is there to catch him. To scoop him up into his arms and lower him to the cave floor, propping them both against the wall.

They start a fire that night. Huddle around it, naked in their human forms. They don't have clothes on them, but they don't need them. They still curl close. Keith half in Lance's lap, legs thrown across him. His head is tucked against Lance's shoulder, and Lance's head rests atop his.

As much as he loves his dragon form— as powerful as it makes him feel and as refreshing as it is on his mind— he missed this form. He missed being small and lithe. He missed the kind of strength that comes in his body, lesser but unique. He missed how sensitive his skin is without scales in the way. How he can feel all of Lance.

His body still aches, but here, alone, in the fire's warmth, with Lance's arms wrapped around him, he feels safe.

Neither of them speak. They don’t need words. In a strange way, Keith fears that voices will disrupt this perfect little bubble they find themselves in, separated from the real world. Like a dream. One that he’s not ready to wake from.

Soon, they will have to leave this cave and return to their lives.

But not yet.

Lance's hands run idly across his skin. Up and down his arm. Up and down his thighs. Fingers trailing patterns. He hums gently under his breath, voice low and rumbling. Keith closes his eyes and loses himself in the touch.

Then… the touch start to shift.

The hand stroking his arm moves to his side, tracing his waist and hip. Fingers curling almost teasingly, fleetingly, along the curve of his ass. Just the side. Just barely. Almost— before they're dancing away like they were never there.

His other hand continues along Keith's thighs. From knee to nearly his hip before retreating. Occasionally switching thigh. But they slowly shift... and shift... fingertips moving a little inward, upward. Close— but moving away. Close— but retreating.

At first Keith writes it off as an accident. Getting lost in the touches and hands wandering. But as it continues, he sees it for what it is: a subtle tease. A subtle question. The gentle push of boundaries, further... further... giving Keith plenty of time to say no.

But Keith doesn't. He holds his breath every time Lance's fingers trail higher, letting out in a shaky sigh as they move away. He's still lost in it. Relaxed and putty in Lance's skilled hands.

It's so subtle... so slow... so gradual... like gentle tides creeping up a beach.

He doesn't even notice the soft sounds he starts making. Not at first. Doesn't notice how he starts to shift and squirm against Lance. How he turns his head to nuzzle deeper into his neck, drowning in his scent, eyes squeezed shut and open mouthed panting against his throat.

And when Lance's hands finally— _finally_ — graze one of his cocks, he's almost surprised to find how hard he is already. Just from the teasing and anticipation. He gasps as Lance's fingers trail up one cock, down... and then to the other. No longer retreating away. Bolder. Braver.

He slides them between his fingers, stroking them both at once. Turning his head to press his lips to Keith's hair, rumbling into it as his grip tightens, working Keith up and down, both at once.

He'd already lost in it all— in the build and haze— so when the pleasure hits, he's _gone_. Too gone to think. Too gone to doubt or question or think of anything that isn't _Lance_. His scent. His skin. His touch. His skillful hands. Long slender fingers. Sure and deft. Cool to the touch. Relief against his heated flesh.

He tilts his head back, eyes still closed, not even sure of what he's seeking until he feels it—

Until Lance's lips fall over his own.

Until that mouth is finally— _finally_ — on his, hot and heavy, tilting until they slot perfectly together. Gentle, but oh so firm.

Despite the gentle, slow touch on his cocks, Lance's kiss is nearly demanding. Heated. Passionate. There's a bite to it that makes Keith realize just how much he's holding back. He hadn't realized the tension Lance holds beneath those gentle touches, but it comes through in his kiss.

Lance is barely kept in check, the beast in him— the alpha in him— wanting to ravage Keith in a way that sends shivers down his spine, eager and thrilled. But he doesn't. Because Keith is still healing, angry scars forming on his abdomen. And Keith recognizes the care and control behind his touch.

Recognizes how much he _cares_.

It makes him melt further into the kiss. Giving into the demanding presence of Lance's mouth. Twining their tongues with a soft little whine. One hand finds its way into Lance's hair, curling hard and holding him firming, refusing to let him leave as Keith bites back into it.

His other hand finds Lance's cocks, both hard and weeping from the tips. He's never done this with another, but he's done it to himself, so it can't be much different. Not that he has to do much.

From the moment he touches them, Lance stiffens, gasps, groans low and ragged.

Neither of them last long. It's been building for far too long. A fire that's simmered and now consumes them.

Keith crawls into Lance's lap, and despite the desperate heat, despite the lust darkening his lidded gaze, Lance is careful, lifting Keith and making sure the new position doesn't agitate his wound.

And while Keith appreciates it and while it melts his heart, he's _needy_ and _desperate_ and he needs Lance's touch to be rough and feral and _biting_.

He straddles Lance's lap, and they both groan as their cocks slip together. Slotting together. _Perfect_.

It's a wild sensation. All the points of contact. And it's made more as they reach down and take hold of all of them. It's messy and uncoordinated. Four large, thick alpha cocks. Two hands desperately trying to stroke them, but more or less just holding them together as they desperately rut their hips.

Lances other arm wraps around Keith's waist, supporting him and trying to keep him from moving too much in their lustful grind. Keith clings to his shoulder, claws digging into Lance's back—

And when he comes, Lance bites Keith's shoulder. Just down the curve of his neck. Far enough away to be respectful, but close enough to his scent gland to send pleasure shooting down his spine, molten and hot, and push him over the edge.

The sound he makes is inhuman.

They sleep that night tangled together, naked in their human forms. Mostly anyway. Losing control made some things come out. Their tails are out, twisted together. Skin speckled by scales. Keith's horns are out and Lance rubs the base of them as they chase after sleep.

The thing between them has finally snapped. Flood gates finally breaking. He knows there's no going back, but in this moment, Keith can’t bring himself to mind.

* * *

Finding his scouting party isn’t difficult.

From the moment they step into the open air, he can scent them on the wind. They’re camped in the valley below his chosen cave, closer than they had been when Keith was injured to begin with. And as they walk through the forest, he can see the clear signs of the territory being marked.

The scent. The claw marks on the trees. The scorch marks.

They had stayed close to him, waited for him, and kept the area safe while he recovered.

And Keith is… touched.

He sniffs quietly, trying to be subtle as he bites his lip and lets out a shaky breath.

But Lance notices because Lance always notices him. His hand is wrapped around Keith’s, squeezing gently, grounding as they make their way to the camp. He walks with his head held high, hand tightly clasped in Lance’s. Both of them bare and unashamed.

He knows the scar from his wound is on display, jagged and pink across his stomach and side.

Proof of his near death.

Proof of his victory.

Proof of his strength.

He can hear the others rustling in the wood as they approach the camp. Can hear and smell them gathering. Following. Curious and excited whispers starting up in their wake.

He keeps his chin high and eyes forward.

And then he sees Shiro.

And Shiro’s face lights up— surprise, relief, and joy flickering across his features— and Keith loses it.

Suddenly, he’s no longer a knight. No longer a grown alpha. No longer a proud warrior.

He’s a child, and he’s come home.

His hand slips from Lance’s, and he lets him go as Keith sprints forward, practically throwing himself into Shiro’s arms. Strong and secure, they wrap around him, lifting him off his feet and spinning him around like when he was young. Like when he was learning what it meant to have a family again.

Shiro holds him close, nuzzling in his hair. Keith can feel his chest heave and smell the salt of his tears, but he doesn’t look. He wraps his arms around Shiro and buries his face in his neck, breathing in his familiar scent.

He sighs, melting against him.

Grateful that Shiro has never given up on him.

That Shiro had known he needed Lance.

That the act of calling on him meant Shiro’s approval.

He had never realized how desperately he needed his brother’s approval, and now that he has it— subtle and unspoken as it is, but clear nonetheless— he feels invincible.

Come what may.

* * *

“Are you sure?” Shiro asks, arms crossed and brow pinched as he regards Lance thoughtfully. “I won’t make you leave, but if you stay, you’ll get no special treatment.”

“I understand,” Lance says. Chin held high. Shoulders pulled back. He’s smiling, but there’s a hardness to his gaze, locked with Shiro’s. Playful, but serious. Confident. He looks every bit the tall, proud alpha that Keith knows he is. “With all due respect, I have no place at home. I’m the youngest of five. My place at political meetings is more of a statement and a courtesy than a purpose. I trained as a knight for this purpose, and now that I’m here, I see no reason to leave.”

Keith stands off to the side, leaning a hip against a tree, arms crossed as he watches the exchange. He’s already spoken with Lance about this, but ultimately, it’s up to Shiro whether or not Lance can stay. He is, after all, in charge of this division.

However, Shiro has taken a lot less convincing than they anticipated.

Lance turns then, eyes catching on Keith’s. Sharp and fixated. Blue as gemstones. As the sky during a storm. As the swirling ocean. As the crystals his family grows deep in the caves. “I’m staying,” he says firmly, and his voice sends shivers down Keith’s spine.

Shiro sighs, but it’s far more fond than exasperated. “I had a feeling you would.” There’s a smile on his lips and amusement in his voice. He lays a hand on Lance’s shoulder, drawing his attention back. “It’ll be good to have you with us. You’re an exceptional warrior.”

Lance’s grin is blinding. Proud. Overjoyed.

“Come on,” Shiro says, stepping away and gesturing for Lance to follow. “You can write a letter to your family, and we’ll send a messenger as soon as you’re done.”

Lance tucks his hands behind his head, fingers laced, leaning back as he lazily smiles.

He shoots Keith a quick wink as he passes, and Keith feels the bubble of anticipation fizzling in his veins.

To be with Lance on the front lines. Traveling the territory and far from the heart of their clan. From the watchful eyes. Despite all his doubts and his worries, he’s excited for this.

Come what may.

* * *

Things between him and Lance have always been shifting. Always changing. Every time Keith gets a grasp on what they are and where they stand, they end up pivoting to new found territory. Sometimes it’s felt like they were moving backwards. Sometimes it felt like they were going off course.

This time, however, it feels less like things are shifting, and more like things are _blooming_.

Like the seeds that were planted long before they presented— the saplings that have been harrowed by the weather and starved time and time again— are _finally_ starting to bloom. Despite it all. Unfurling, slow and steady, creating something beautiful and worth all the heart ache.

Here, far from the watchful and strict eyes of clan and custom, Keith finally feels _free_.

Free to want what he wants.

To let his body, mind, and heart finally reach for the one person he’s ever desired.

To hold Lance like he’s craved.

To court him like he deserves.

He’s tired of resisting. Tired of holding back. He’s not sure he can, given what they’ve went through. What Lance did for him. Lance saved his life, and he’ll gladly give that life to him. If he wants it. And he has no doubt that Lance _wants it_. He’s made his choice abundantly clear. Showed less reservations than Keith. Accepted how he felt far sooner.

But now Keith has caught up.

And now they’re _blooming_

* * *

Now that Lance is with him, Keith is finally able to enjoy being a knight. He’s able to enjoy the traveling, the camaraderie, and living out in the wild.

He enjoys their flights through the mountain range and over forests, keeping an eye out for dangers below but also enjoying the flight itself. The wind beneath his wings. The moisture of clouds evaporating against his heated scales. Shiro leads their formation, and being his right hand, Keith flanks it. He’s quick and agile, allowing him to swerve around the others. Lance watches the rear, keeping everyone in sight, a trusted position.

And a private one, for when Keith swoops by him and playfully bumps into his space, throwing him off balance before diving away.

Whenever they split up to scout out areas or to hunt, Keith and Lance go together. No one has ever questioned it, and everyone expects it.

Hunting with Lance is everything Keith could have ever wanted. Working _with_ him. Together. Seamlessly in tandem. Covering each other’s backs. Working effortlessly to bring down a kill.

There’s no flirting then. No playfulness. Serious and concentrated, as they scout out areas for any sign of trespassers or to track their prey.

It’s a thrill that’s a fire in his blood. Makes him preen with pride when he sees Lance’s toothy grin.

He’s able to sit at the campfires with his fellows and actually join in the conversation. Or at least listen to it without driving them all away. Lance is far more social, and Keith is content to just sit next to him and lean into his side, soaking in the warmth and the companionship.

And that’s another thing: the complete lack of judgement.

Their scouting party consists of twelve— thirteen now that Lance is here. And now that Keith is no longer wrapped up in his own head and no longer isolating himself, he’s beginning to realize that everyone out here is a lot more accepting than he ever anticipated.

Here, far from the clan and from the expectations of their kind, things are lax.

They have an omega knight among them, one who is currently courting one of their fellow alphas, a match that wasn’t approved of by their families. But out here, they can do it as they like.

They have a couple more alpha’s with mixed galra blood. People who defected from the galra clan long before the fall, and who fought alongside the Altean clan and the Marmora clan in the fight. People who were shunned in the city due to their blood, and who find it more comforting to be here.

There’s a knight whose family never wanted them to be a knight.

A beta knight who was told they could never fight like an alpha.

Another omega knight who rejects the omega role and joined the scouting troops to escape an arranged mating.

Their little party includes those with mixed blood. Of all the secondary sexes. Of highborn and lowborn alike. They come from all different backgrounds, and their reasons for being knights, for being positioned out here, are all different.

But the one thing they have in common is the desire for _freedom_ from customs and expectations.

It creates an atmosphere that Keith finds himself relaxing in. Leaning into Lance. Allowing himself to reach for those small, impulsive touches. Allowing himself to lean into Lance’s bolder and more frequent ones, like when he throws an arm over Keith’s shoulder, or bumps their hips together, or runs his fingers through Keith’s hair.

They spend their nights together, bodies pressed tight, legs entangled, and arms wrapped around one another. Lance’s body is always cool, and Keith’s is always warm, but there’s always a spark whenever their skin touches. A heat and headiness that builds.

But they take it slow.

They indulge in gentle touches and longing glances, letting the anticipation simmer.

They’re careful not to spar each other. With the adrenaline pumping, bodies hot and strong, fighting to pin one another… things get out of hand far too quickly. They’ve learned that. They’ve adjusted.

Instead they watch each other spar with others. Watch with lidded eyes. Desire coiling beneath their skin. And the spar becomes a show. Proving to the predator that they’re worthy. Making eye contact that’s dark with lust and dangerous with a challenge.

Silently trying to goad the other into acting first.

Neither do. It becomes a game. Both stubborn. Both savoring the anticipation.

They take their time circling one another. Sizing each other up. Teasing with intimate touches and taunting with inappropriate ones.

They court each other, but it’s different. It’s not traditional. But it’s wholly _them_ , and Keith wouldn’t have it any other way.

Keith gives Lance another token— another strip of cloth saturated in his scent. Lance braids him a leather necklace with one of his scales hanging as a pendant.

Keith will subtly run his nose along Lance’s neck, leaning in far too close than strictly necessary. And Lance will take any opportunity to palm Keith’s ass, reaching for it when the others aren’t looking, humming as he kneads the firm flesh.

Competitive as always, _everything_ turns into a competition. Be it gathering fire wood, a race through the forest, or a bout of aerial maneuvers. Anything to prove themselves. Strong and worthy. Instinctual and driving.

And despite not being mated, they scent each other often. When they have down time. When one comes back from scouting. As they’re going to sleep and as they wake in the morning. Until their scents are simply _known_ to be mixed. Until Keith has grown to dislike the scent of Lance’s scent alone, preferring to have his own heat as an undertone to that fresh, crisp scent.

Keith falls asleep most nights with Lance’s fingers in his hair and his heartbeat beneath his ear.

* * *

It’s a rare sunny afternoon. One of last ones before autumn fully starts to take hold. There’s a chill in the wind but not a cloud in the sky, and the sun is delightfully warm when the air is still.

They’ve found a quiet, secure area, and Shiro has ordered them to take a day to rest. And that is exactly what Keith intends to do.

Lance, however, is never one to miss the opportunity to show off. And as such, has elected to teach some of the others some pointers on how to wield a boy. After all, he’s the most skilled archer their clan has.

Not one to enjoy a bow, Keith slips away. Ducks into the woods around their camp. Slips away, undetected and unnoticed— save for a brief nod of acknowledgement from Shiro.

He stays close enough to be within the safety of their camp, but far enough to ensure privacy, walking around the perimeter they set until he finds something he had spotted earlier: a small clearing with a stream and large boulders.

Smiling to himself, he sheds his clothes, folding them into a neat pile before stepping up to the boulders. They’re warm to the touch, in direct sunlight for the better part of the early afternoon. Perfect.

He lays out on his stomach, stretching his body and sighing as his bones pop. He relaxes against the smooth, curved surface. Folding his arms beneath his head. Eyes closing as he sighs. The rock is rough, dry, and warm against his flesh, and the sun burns against his back.

He loves the heat. Adores it. His inner dragon preening and content. And there he lets his head go hazy, sleep creeping in as he suns himself.

And it’s also here that he waits.

He’s not sure how long it takes. Time fades, incomprehensible as he loses himself to the warmth and the sun. But despite how relaxed he allows himself to be, despite the haze filling his head, he’s always on alert.

So he hears the soft snap of a twig.

Hears the soft pad of footsteps.

Catches the briefest whiff of something salty and crisp, damp and earthy on the wind.

He keeps his head down. Body relaxed. Eyes closed. But feels the smile tug at his lips.

It takes Lance a while to reach him. Not that he can’t find him, oh no. He found Keith fairly easily. Keith heard him step into the clearing, and he heard the long pause. He can track Lance slowly circling the clearing. His footsteps aren’t meant to be subtle, but they are measured and slow.

He hears the low hum. The deep, throaty rumble. Feels the shiver run down his spine despite the sun as goosebumps rise on his skin.

He can feel Lance’s eyes on him. Watching. Appreciating. Seeing him from all angles. Gaze hot and heavy against Keith’s skin. Leaving a tangible trail of desire in its wake.

By the time he hears Lance start to strip— clothes hitting the ground, soft and muffled— his body is buzzing with anticipation. Tingling with a rush and a lust he’s so rarely allowed himself to indulge in. His cocks are half hard against the rock beneath him, merely from knowing that Lance was watching, merely from imagining the look on his face.

And when Lance finally— _finally_ — touches him, he feels the air between them sizzle and spark. Heat rushes through him as his awareness zeros in, fixating on the spot at the back of his thigh where Lance’s hand rests.

Palm pressed to the muscle. Grip firm enough to dig his nails in. Fingers spread wide.

Hungry.

Possessive.

His skin is— as always— cool to the touch, but Keith feels so, so hot beneath him. It’s just one touch as Lance uses his grip as leverage to crawl onto the boulder behind him, and yet Keith feels like he’s melting. He back arches just slightly, head lifting as he takes in a sharp breath. His hips shift automatically, instinctually, cocks finding friction against the boulder as he spreads his thighs.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

So that Lance can settle comfortably between them, his hand sliding up to Keith’s hip— fingers curling around the bone— as his own thighs push against the back of Keith’s. Making them spread wider. Forcing him to acknowledge the man between them— as if Keith could ever think of anything but.

“You’re a tease,” he growls, voice pitched low, smooth and rich like honey, yet rumbled and crackling like smoldering embers. He leans over Keith, blocking out the sun, one hand coming down on the rock beside his head to prop him up and cage Keith in. He leans in. Breath chilling against his skin. Lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “What am I going to do with you?” he muses, humming thoughtfully as his hand moves up Keith’s side, palm firm to his skin, fingers splayed wide.

Keith’s breath comes quick and shallow, chest feeling tight and stomach doing flips— but it’s not unpleasant. No, quite the opposite. He wants this— _needs_ this. Needs _Lance_.

He’s an alpha, strong and proud. A perfect specimen, he’s heard. He has his own alpha ego. His inner dragon hissing at the thought of submission.

But _this_ , with Lance, doesn’t feel like submission.

Even as he pushes back, going up on his knees to press his ass into the air, grinding against Lance’s cocks— already hard and leaking— breath catching in his throat— back arching— head thrown back to expose his neck—

It doesn’t feel like submission.

It feels like _power_.

Especially when he feels Lance’s body shudder. When his hips rut automatically, instinctually, and uncontrollably against him. When his breath hisses between his teeth, giving way to a low groan.

Keith glances at him over his shoulder, a smirk on his lips, eyes lidded as he takes in Lance’s flushed face and dark eyes. The fangs that have started to sharpen behind parted lips. The scales dancing across his skin.

“Anything you want,” he whispers like a challenge, grinding backwards, feeling absolute glee bubble up in his chest as Lance ruts hard against him with a growl, pinning him to the rock.

Fire burns through his veins, scales shifting beneath his skin as his muscles flex, thighs tightening and hands scrambling against the boulder, claws digging in. Heat pools low in his gut, driving and _demanding_.

He’s wanted this for so long— denied himself for so long—

But Lance is behind him— _mounting_ him— rutting against him in the same way Keith has been dreaming about for months. And this time there’s no holding back. There’s no reason to.

Out here, they’re alone.

Out here, he can have what he wants.

It’s hot and fast, and neither of them last long. Unlike their tender night in the cave, this time is desperate, ravenous, and _filthy_.

Now that Keith’s wound is healed, Lance doesn’t hold back. He claws at Keith. Teeth sinking in his shoulder as he _growls_. Using his body weight to pin him down even as his hands pull his hips up, force him to his knees, forces him to present his ass for him and him alone. He spits, slickening up Keith’s crack for his cocks to easily glide between his cheeks. Finding delicious friction. Rubbing against him. Sliding against his hole, teasing.

They can’t fit between his cheeks at the same time, and when Lance gets tired of one sliding perfectly while the other grinds against a cheek, he leans back, grabs Keith’s ass in a bruising grip, and forces them open. Forces them wide enough to accommodate both of his cocks. Fucks them both against Keith with a renewed vigor that borders on frantic.

And the sounds he makes— the _sounds_. Grunting and groaning whenever the friction hits just right. Hissing and growling whenever Keith tries to change his position or alleviate the pain in his knees. All he can do is stay there, pinned beneath Lance, as he uses him to get off.

And it’s the hottest thing Keith has ever experienced.

His claws dig into the rock. His own breath coming in gasps and filtered out into moans. He pushes back against Lance, desperately trying to grind against him, but he’s helpless against Lance’s grip and his pace.

His own cocks hang heavy below him, beading precum and aching to be touched.

When he starts to move, Lance growls a warning. Keith whines, a soft pleading, punched out, “ _Touch me_ ,” escaping his lips.

And then Lance is falling forward once more, caging Keith in and draping himself heavy over his back. He reaches around to hold both cocks in one hand as he continues to rut, pace brutal and uncoordinated, grip tight and quick and keeping up with his thrusts—

Until Keith is spilling out over his hand and Lance is leaving streaks across Keith’s back.

They both collapse, panting harshly, chests heaving as their minds spin— lost in a post orgasmic haze— body pleasantly tingling— dragons sated and humming their satisfaction.

And Lance holds Keith close, arms around his middle, pressing his lips to Keith’s heated flesh. Long, lingering kisses. Quick and playful pecks. All along his shoulders. Nuzzling into his neck. Kissing behind his ear as he scents him. As if Keith didn’t reek of Lance’s scent already.

And there they spend the rest of the afternoon. Lazy, sated, and content. Sunning in the afternoon heat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Update: Sunday, 1-26-20
> 
> To learn more about me and my writing, please visit my social media!
> 
>  **My Social Media:** [Tumblr](http://www.wittyy-name.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WittyyName), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/wittyy_name/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rest is honestly just smut.
> 
> The amount of people who have read this despite abo not being their cup of tea, all just because they trust my writing, and then coming out of it loving this fic... it's just _astounding_. I'm honestly mind blown, humbled, and incredibly honored. I didn't think this fic would be for everyone, but so many people are giving it a chance because of trust in me, and they've been enjoying it immensely, and that... it just makes me _so happy_. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for joining me on this journey. This fic has honestly just been extremely self indulgent. It's been me just throwing my dragon klance daydreams onto a page, no pressure to please anyone but me, and I'm so so happy that people have not only been enjoying it, but have been able to _feel_ that.
> 
> Thank you everyone, and happy reading <33

Lance has never been happier, and that’s a fact he’ll readily stand by. However, despite how well things are going with Keith— despite how overjoyed he is to wake up with him curled against his side every morning, and how thrilling it is to be able to pull Keith aside and rut against his well toned ass any time he wants— things are far from easy.

Out here, far from the clan, their budding relationship can prosper and take root, blooming into something thriving and worth while.

But this is _Keith_ , and things with Keith can never be _easy_.

Especially when they’re on the front lines.

Especially when their duty is to protect the clan and their territory.

Especially when Shiro is called back home for one thing or another, and he leaves Keith in charge.

Especially when Keith is hotheaded, reckless, impulsive, and stubborn, and Lance is expected to listen to him. When Keith _trusts_ Lance to listen to him. And Lance is loath to break that trust— especially when Keith really _is_ a good leader, and Lance will stand beside him through anything.

Which, unfortunately, puts him in situations where his loyalty to Keith as his leader is in direct conflict with his instinctual desire to protect him as a lover, alpha, and— hopefully— future mate.

“Lance,” Keith snaps, voice sharp and firm. Commanding. Demanding. Confident and quick. “Take the others and lead the pursuit. Don’t let any of them through our lines.”

“Wait!” He takes a step toward him, grabbing Keith’s upper arm, nails scraping against the scales that have risen on Keith’s skin. “Where are you going?”

“A couple of them split off.” He says it like it’s so simple. Like of _course_ he would deviate from the group to go off on his own. Something must show on Lance’s face because Keith’s expression hardens. “I’m the fastest. I can catch them.”

“I don’t want you going alone.” He speaks low and hushed, just between them, hissing his displeasure through his fangs. He tries to plead with his eyes. “I’ll come with you—“

“No,” Keith’s hand falls over his own, squeezing lightly. He meets Lance’s gaze, unblinking and intense, irises swirling with the fire that roils beneath his skin. “I need you to lead the others while I’m gone. You can do this.” And then he smiles, playful and heated and frustratingly coy given the circumstances— the bastard. “Who better to trust than my alpha?”

A shiver runs down Lance’s spine, his dragon— so close to the surface already— preens.

Keith pulls out of his grip. “I’ll take Axca with me, and I’ll be careful. But I need you to lead the others.”

“Okay,” he says, swallowing past the lump in his throat. He pins Keith with a firm look. “Be careful.” It’s not a request. It’s a demand.

Keith just smirks. “Keep them safe.”

It takes everything in him to turn away. He trusts Keith, but he’s worried. He wants to prove he can be trusted, but he just wants to be at Keith’s side. He wants to be the leader Keith thinks he is, but he desperately wants to hold onto Keith and protect him from danger.

It’s conflicting.

It’s tearing him apart.

But in the end, he grits his teeth, barks out orders, and leads their party through the trees and skies, chasing down the galra druids trying to get past them to the heart of the clan. He trusts Keith to stay safe. Trusts him to come back. No matter how much he wants to lock him away and keep him safe, he knew from the beginning that that would never be part of the deal.

He loves Keith wild. He loves him free. He loves him reckless and hotheaded and impulsive and stubborn.

He loves him as he is— an alpha, a warrior, a leader— and sometimes that means getting his own instincts under control, no matter how frustrating it is.

* * *

But that doesn’t mean he has to ignore them forever.

The druids are chased down and their threat neutralized. Lance is surprised and thrilled with his new position of command as he leads their team, as they obey and listen to him without question. With respect. When they finally flank back around to meet up with Keith and Axca, Lance exchanges little more than a curt nod and a clipped recap of events.

And then he turns his back on Keith and strides away, keeping a solid distance between them as their team moves to find a place to camp for the night.

Not because he’s mad. Oh, no. Because Lance isn’t sure he trusts himself to touch Keith and keep himself in check.

So he removes himself from temptation, moving through his duties in a haze, keeping his gaze trained on Keith across the distance he’s put between them.

Keith looks fine. A little scraped and bruised, but otherwise fine. Dirt smudges his cheek. His hair is a mess. And it’s a good fucking thing, too. Lance isn’t sure what he would’ve done if Keith had been seriously injured again.

Hell, he’s not entirely sure what he’s going to do _now_.

There’s something brewing inside him. A bubbling. A simmering. The cold, burning flames of his fire crawling beneath his skin. His inner dragon is aware of it. Aware of _Keith_. Keeping him in his sights. Rumbling low in Lance’s chest. Irritated. Restless. Needy.

He holds himself back, but something is building, going tense and taut, and he’s not sure what he’ll do when he finally snaps.

Distantly, he’s aware that he’s prowling around the camp. Stalking on slow and measured steps. Predatory. Eyes locked on Keith, even as he goes about chores alongside everyone else.

And he knows Keith knows. Has met those eyes. Has seen the curious, calculating, and interested heat in them.

It just makes the thrill of the hunt even more potent.

It all comes to a head once the sun has set. The hunting party has been sent out. One is out securing the perimeter of their camp. The others are settling around the fire, talking amiably amongst themselves.

Lance sneaks up behind Keith— though he’s not foolish enough to say it's a surprise, no one sneaks up on Keith without him knowing, especially not Lance— grabs his arm, and drags him into the woods.

They don’t make it far from the camp before Lance is shoving Keith’s back against a tree, pressing up against him— hips flush, his thigh between Keith’s, chests pressed tight. His fingers dig into Keith’s hair, jerking his head forward and in the perfect position to devour his mouth.

“You are so _frustrating_ ,” he growls against Keith’s lips, fangs nipping at them, making Keith gasp and whine before slipping his tongue between those plump lips. “ _Reckless_ ,” he hisses, teeth against Keith’s jaw. “ _Hotheaded_ ,” he growls, pressing his lips to the hollow below his chin. “ _Impulsive_ ,” he groans, trailing his tongue down the column of his throat. “ _Stubborn_ ,” he whispers, latching his lips around Keith’s scent gland and sucking hard.

Keith gasps, a low, filthy moan slipping from his lips as he tilts his head back, fingers sliding into Lance’s hair and pulling at the roots. Body writhing agains the tree, hips desperately trying to buck against Lance’s as he sucks a dark mark onto Keith’s neck. Just over his scent gland.

_Mine_ , his mind whispers.

_Mine_ , his inner dragon growls.

Keith’s scent floods his senses, filling his lungs and sizzling against his tongue, hot and sharp, all earth and spice.

And when he finally releases him, he laps at the area with long drags of his tongue before leaning back, humming as he admires his work and Keith’s flushed face. “You drive me crazy,” he whispers, voice low and hoarse.

He lifts a hand to cup Keith’s jaw, smirking as he nuzzles into Lance’s palm. He presses his thumb to Keith’s bottom lip, loving how easily they part for him.

“What am I going to do with you?” He muses, and beneath the pad of his thumb, Keith’s lips curl into a smirk.

“Whatever you want…” It’s low. Dangerous. Challenging. Edging on playful.

Lance hums, but it comes out as a rumble, resonating deep in his chest. “This is a dangerous game you’re playing. You know what I want.”

And yet they can’t have it. Not yet, anyway. The bond has to be sealed during a rut. It’s the only way to make it permanent.

And Lance wants permanent.

“I know,” Keith nuzzles against his hand, comforting and pacifying, before he leans forward, slipping Lance’s thumb into his mouth. He holds Lance’s lidded gaze as his lips. tighten around him, sucking his thumb in deep and lightly grazing his teeth along it, swirling his tongue along the length of it as he slowly pulls off.

Lance’s chest shudders, breath ragged as he whispers, “On your knees.”

It’s supposed to be a command— a _demand_ — strong and firm, fueled by his alpha voice. Yet with the way Keith instantly drops to the ground in front of him, with the way that coy smirk curls his lips— so positively and obnoxiously _pleased_ — Lance can’t help but feel like he’s the one being tugged along, that Keith is only giving him the illusion of control.

Lance finds he doesn’t mind one single bit.

His hands shake, and Keith has to help him undo his belt. Quick and impatient as ever. He pulls on Lance’s pants, only getting them halfway down his thighs before abandoning the effort in favor of wrapping both hands around the shafts of his hardening cocks.

Lance hisses, eyes fluttering shut as his head rolls back.

Keith wastes little time, and distantly— through the haze of desperation, lust, and need— Lance realizes that maybe Keith had been feeling the same as he had. That maybe Keith hadn’t liked leaving Lance behind either, but had trusted him enough to do so. That Keith was worried but proud, just as Lance is of him so often.

It’s a realization that settles lightly, a burning ember in his heart, warm and snug.

But it’s a realization that’s lost in the burning inferno that envelops him as Keith’s hot mouth sinks down one of his cocks.

He lets out a low groan, one hand fisting in Keith’s hair while the other props himself up on the tree in front of him. Head falling forward, he watches through lidded eyes as Keith bobs his head, lips spread thin around him and eyes closed as he guides one of Lance’s cocks deep into his mouth.

His tongue is devilish and skilled, but Lance can barely appreciate the dexterity when all he can feel is _tight, wet heat_. He stares, lips parted in awe, as Keith presses him to the back of his throat and holds him there, swallowing around the tip. One hand continues to stroke his other cock, grip twisting on the upstroke and thumb spreading precum around his head. While his other hand holds the base of the cock in his mouth, fingers wrapped around the area his mouth can’t reach, fingers squeezing and rubbing where he can already feel his knot starting to swell—

And then he opens his eyes— pupils blown into wide slits, irises dark and swirling, shining with moisture—

“ _Keith—_ ” Lance groans— _whines_ — and then suddenly Keith is moving. Bobbing his head with vigor.

He switches between Lance’s cocks, giving each one attention with that sinful hot mouth of his while his hand relentlessly strokes the other one— keeping them both hard— edging each one before switching— building pleasure in Lance’s gut that coleuses into a tidal wave— building— reaching— peaking—

_Crashing_.

He comes with a shout, slapping a hand over his own mouth to muffle the sound into a long and low moan. One hand squeezing tight in Keith’s hair, holding his head still while he cums down his throat with one cock, the other shooting streaks of cum across his cheek and jaw and hair just a moment later.

His whole body shudders as the pleasure floods through him, crashing and swirling. He holds himself tense and taut— before finally collapsing.

His knees give out, and he falls to the ground in front of Keith. Who catches him. Who pulls him in and tucks Lance into the curve of his neck, where he weakly licks at the mark he’d sucked into Keith’s scent gland.

And Keith just hums, satisfied and smug, rubbing Lance’s back and sliding fingers through his hair as the aftershocks shiver through him, as he lays here heavy and limp, as he drifts in a post orgasmic daze, keeping him safe while he flounders.

He’d feel a little guilty if it weren’t for the raw, salty, wet smell he catches rising off of Keith, soaked into the fabric of his pants. The pleasure he can smell wafting from his scent.

_That_ makes him preen with pride, even in his half unconscious state, hazy with pleasure and distant with exhaustion. And he nuzzles into Keith’s neck, content to be held in their small bubble of privacy, surrounded by the shadows dancing through the trees from the nearby campfire.

* * *

_Next time_ is an unspoken treasure between them.

_Next time_ being their next rut.

They don’t know whose it will be, or when it’ll come, but they both know it will. And they both know what will happen when it does.

Lance has fantasized about it for a long, long time. Has imagined it going so many different ways. Who will trigger it first. How it’s carried out. Who will bite who first. How their bond will form and how it will feel.

And so there’s a thrilled shiver of pleasure that trickles down his spine when he wakes one morning to feel the dullest ache in his scent glands and a simmering heat low in his gut.

It’s a small thing at first. He knows he’s still days away from his rut officially starting. But he notices the signs— and has no doubt it’s because of his excitement for them.

They don’t talk about it, but Keith notices, too.

His gaze is glued to Lance more often, trailing him around camp and while they travel. Always behind him or at his side. Stalking around him, eyes lidded and dark.

Once, when his glands give a particularly sore throb, he sees Keith’s nostrils flare and his eyes flutter shut as he inhales deeply. It’s extremely satisfying to watch the shiver jolt through him.

Keith holds onto him extra tight at night, practically draped over him with his nose buried in Lance’s neck.

He’s pretty sure he hasn’t been out of Keith’s sight for days.

It builds the anticipation brewing in his gut, feeding the heat and pressure that’s simmering just below the surface.

Lance isn’t sure how he wants this to go down. Isn’t sure what will happen when his rut fully hits. All he knows is that it will be primal, desperate, and quick. And he’s so fucking ready for it. He’s willing to leave it up to his instincts, to let things happens as they will.

But it’s during his days of pre-rut, while he’s sitting with Keith around the campfire, listening to Axca speak of some of their galra traditions, that he gets an idea…

He’s heard about a mating flight before, but he’s never seen it done.

Where an omega in heat will take flight and lead a chase. Quick and agile and strong. Only the most worthy alpha can catch them. And that is the alpha they mate with.

It’s an ancient practice. One that’s considered more primal. His own clan has long since forsaken the tradition, as it leaves the omega with little choice over their mate. For his clan, mating is an extremely private affair, often done within the safety and confines of a cave. But it’s still a tradition among the galra, who were known to value strength and physical prowess.

But from what Axca describes, the tradition had shifted. It was an omega’s choice to have a public flight, or a private one for just their chosen alpha. Or perhaps to choose among a select group of suitors.

And the thought of it… of giving a chase… of only letting the most worthy catch and mate him… and proving his _own_ worthiness by outflying his pursuing alpha…

The thought of giving Keith a piece of his own heritage back…

It gives Lance an idea.

* * *

Lance wakes with a fire in his belly and his skin tingling, and he knows it’s time.

His body is hypersensitive, over aware of every little thing. Everything is so bright. He can hear so much. He can smell everyone around them, and it makes him restless and anxious, a curling of something territorial rising up his throat.

He can feel Keith plastered against his side, half on top of him, and the heat is _excruciating_. Keith emits a lot of heat naturally, but right now Lance’s skin is cool, his body temperature lowering, and Keith hurts to touch.

It hurts, but it’s exciting, and the burning riles him up. Makes him hyper aware of the alpha pressed against him, makes him want to roll him over and pin him down and—

No.

It’s starting, but he’s not out of control yet. And he has a _plan_ for this.

Carefully and slowly, he extracts himself from Keith’s embrace, rising to his feet and slinking away. Every step away from him is both thrilling and nauseating.

Crouching at their things, he digs around until he finds the flask he had purchased at a small village days ago. Oil. He’ll need it. Plenty of it.

As he moves through the camp, flinching at every sound and feeling an anxiousness and irritation at being around others— at leaving _Keith_ near others— crawling beneath his skin, he notices Shiro shift.

He pauses as the alpha props himself up, their eyes meeting. Shiro scents the air, but doesn’t flinch. HIs gaze is steel as he regards Lance, and Lance waits with bated breath at the assessment.

Because Shiro is his _leader_ , and he’s Keith’s family.

But then Shiro is nodding, a small, ghost of a smile on his lips. “Be good to him,” he says.

Lance feels his heart swell. “I will.”

Shiro rolls over, eyes closing once more, and Lance hurries away from camp. Into the woods. Weaving through the trees until he reaches the lake he had spotted on their fly over the day before.

Crystal blue waters, shimmering in the rising morning sun. Nestled just below a rising mountain, surrounded by a thick veil of trees. Enclosed, but open. Somehow private. Peaceful. It’s almost a wonder they hadn’t camped on its shores, but perhaps that had been on purpose. Perhaps Shiro had seen Lance eyeing it too closely.

He’ll have to thank him later.

He steps out into an open clearing, the grass soft beneath his bare feet. He hadn’t bothered to put on his boots. He won’t be needing them.

As he walks toward the lake, he sheds his clothes, shivering as they slide across hypersensitive flesh. He leaves them trailing in his wake. Stepping stones to where he stands, proud and bare, on the lake’s shore. There he drops the flask to the ground before stepping into the still waters.

He wades in slowly, eyes closed, hands held out at his sides to feel the water’s surface rise as he steps deeper. He stops when he’s waist deep, simply enjoying the feeling of water around him and slick mud beneath his toes. He knows the water should be cold, but it feels warm against his chilled flesh.

Then he dives in, swimming deep and staying beneath the surface until his lungs ache, reveling in the sensation of floating, of being embraced. It’s strangely grounding.

Breaking the surface, he tosses his head, shaking droplets from his hair.

He takes his time in the water. Washing dirt from his skin. Letting himself indulge, bare and free within the water. Humming softly as he feels his rut crashing over him. His glands aching, scent pouring out thick and heady. A fire twisting in his belly, gut tense and tight, cocks already half hard and aching.

He soaks in the morning sun, letting his rut bloom within him.

And when impatience starts to take hold— need too hard to ignore— he makes his way back to shore. He kneels down on the soft grass, takes the flask of oil in hand, and begins to prep himself.

It’s a strange sensation, but not a new one. He’ll admit that he had been young and curious once, before he presented, when thoughts of being Keith’s omega had flitted through his fantasies. He had experimented with himself then, and— admittedly— a few times since.

Though it would be easier if he were an omega, it’s not impossible now. Different, certainly, but not impossible. Not with time and careful prep and plenty of oil.

Despite the impatience and restlessness crawling beneath his skin— pin-pricks of adrenaline that are so hard to ignore— Lance makes sure to take his time.

Teases himself with slicked up fingers before gently pushing in, hissing at the pain, pressure, and pleasure that ripple through him. The pain is fast fading. The pressure builds. And the pleasure start off as a low, delightful simmer, blooming the further he goes.

He’s generous with the oil. He gives himself plenty of time to adjust before adding more fingers. He wants to be properly stretched and generously slick for when Keith finally— _finally_ — takes him. Needs to get himself ready _now_ because he knows that once they’re in the thick of it, once his rut has fully taken hold and Keith’s teeth are in his neck, neither of them will have the patience for it.

He barely has the patience for it now, but the tease is delightful and the anticipation is delicious.

He’s breathing heavily, panting in the morning air with three fingers shoved deep in his ass, when he smells it.

Cinnamon. Spice. Earth. Ash. Fire.

_Keith_.

Lance stiffens, tightening around his fingers, a moan escaping his lips.

Keith doesn’t approach, doesn’t speak, but Lance knows he’s watching. Can feel those dark eyes on him, eating him up. Can smell the thickening of his desire as he scents the wind. And Lance just smiles to himself, arches his back, and slows down. Giving Keith a good show while also using the last of his oil. Until his thighs are coated, his ass is slick, his crack is coated, and it drips down his balls.

When he stands, his cocks hang hard and heavy. They bob as he turns, walking toward where Keith stands a mere thirty feet away.

He’s still as stone. Hands curled into fists. Barely breathing. Eyes lidded and gaze locked on Lance, crawling up his long legs, pausing on his cocks, before ravaging up his chest to his face.

When their eyes meet, Lance shivers, a deep, happy rumble resonating in his chest.

He stops in front of Keith. Not quite touching, but pressing into his space. He leans in, head cocked to the side, chin jutting out to lengthen his neck, tempting and teasing.

His rut is here. Coursing through him. Demanding. Needy. Powerful. _Hungry_. His inner dragon coils beneath his skin, so close to the surface, eager and snarly, adrenaline thick in his lungs. The only thing holding him in check is the feeling of power. The feeling of having Keith at his mercy. Of savoring the helpless desire swirling in Keith’s gaze and saturating his scent.

It feeds his pride.

Fuels his lust.

By the end of this day, Lance may let Keith take him, but _he’s_ the one in charge right now. The one driving Keith insane. The one that will push Keith over the edge into a beast of desire.

“Do you want me?” He whispers lowly, gravely and hoarse with his dragon so close.

“Yes,” Keith breathes, instant and sure.

Lance smiles. Coy and sharp. He doesn’t touch. Doesn’t need to. He already has Keith enraptured. “If you want me…” He take a step back. Then another. Putting space between them. “ _Catch me_.”

He unleashes his dragon all at once. Skin tearing and reforming. Bones breaking and growing. Blue fire— cold enough to burn— ripples across a wave of blue scales and coiling flesh. It _burns_. It _hurts_. It feels _good_. It’s freeing. Exhilarating. A pleasure in and of itself to give into his instincts, his dragon, his rut.

_His desires_.

He digs his claws into the earth, spreading his wings wide as he _roars_. It ripples from his throat, echoing across the lake. It’s a call to arms. A battlecry. Triumphant and powerful. A _challenge_.

With a powerful downbeat and a leap, he launches himself into the air. Flapping furiously, he gains height quickly, climbing, climbing, climbing—

And then he hears the answering roar from below— deep and powerful— sending pleasuring singing through his veins.

He glances down to see a blur of red launch itself upward— dark wings spreading wide with every beat— amethyst eyes catching the light— pupils narrowed and focused—

Lance spins, tucking his wings in close and coiling into a sharp dive as Keith launches past him. He sweeps down low, spreading his wings at the last moment and sailing across the lake, close enough to drag his claws over the surface before he tilts upward, using his moment to climb faster, get height.

He’s a powerful flyer. Always has been. Graceful and agile. He pours his heart into the flight. Every ounce of strength. Until his lungs ache and his muscles are sore, but adrenaline pumps heavy and thick through his veins.

The thrill of it. The pleasure of it. The _power_ of it all.

He may be a good flyer, but Keith is quick. Has a reputation for being the fastest in the clan. Quick thinking. Sharp with his turns and precise with his dives. Lance knows it’s just a matter of time before Keith closes the distance. Before he gets tired of following after Lance’s maneuvers— because he’s certain at this point that Keith is humoring him and savoring the chase.

They streak across the sky. Red and blue. Apex predators. Strong alphas. Dragons.

When he senses the end coming, he takes a quick turn upward, climbing higher and higher. Wing furiously beating. Air crystalizing as he pants through his teeth. The air gets colder, forming beautiful ice against his scales.

But he can hear Keith behind him.

The wind under his wings.

The growl under his breath.

Lance closes his eyes—

And Keith catches him.

Collides into him full force. Immediately grappling him. Body wrapping around him. Wings wrapping around his own, pinning them to his body. Claws scraping against scales. Tails intertwining.

There’s a brief moment of weightlessness, high above the clouds, their scales gleaming in the sun, Keith’s body warm around his—

And then they’re falling— plummeting— toward the earth.

It’s a sensation he’s familiar with, but there’s something special about it this time. Something more thrilling. With Keith wrapped around him, pinning his limbs down, rendering him trapped and helpless as gravity drags them downwards at an alarming rate. The wind roaring past them. Tearing at their scales. Tails fluttering behind them.

And yet he feels wholly and completely safe.

Keith nudges his muzzle under Lance’s jaw, and he moves automatically— _eagerly_ — giving Keith room too—

He opens his jaw wide and sinks his teeth into Lance’s neck. _Hard_. Relentless. Sharp fangs easily cutting through the soft scales to dig into the swollen scent gland.

And there his jaw _locks_. Squeezing the flesh beneath his teeth. Blood pouring into his mouth, coating his tongue and sliding down his throat.

Lance’s mouth opens in a scream that the wind tears away. Keith _growls_ , and Lance can feel it vibrate against him, feels it rumble through the bite— but it’s not aggressive. It’s _triumphant, pleased, comforting, satisfied._

Keith’s scent _pours_ from him. Thick and suffocating. Not even the wind can tear it away before it overloads Lance’s senses. It sinks through the bite. Saturates Lance’s scent gland. Mingles their scents and—

He _feels_ it.

Something forming in his chest. Rooting. Budding. _Blooming_.

A wholeness. Growing and growing. A warmth and fills his chest like nothing else. Pulsing against his ribs.

It feels _overwhelming_. He feels _full_. He feels a cascading rush of _happy, proud, relieved, ecstatic, desperate, driven, protective, possessive, whole, complete, full, connected—_

It’s not all his own. Mirrored, but separate. Cold and hot. Fire and ice. _Burning together_. Building up, up, up into this raging inferno that sears through their veins—

Their bond.

_Their bond_.

It feels foreign as it ripples out through him, igniting every nerve and cell in his body, and yet— _and yet_ — once it forms, it feels wholly natural. Like he can’t imagine being without it. Like this is the way he was always meant to be.

He doesn’t know how long it takes to fall. Doesn’t know how long he loses himself in the haze and pleasure and dizzying sensations of their bond and his rut and _Keith, Keith, Keith._

But then suddenly Keith’s jaw is loosening, and Lance whines as Keith’s teeth leave him. He takes a moment to lick the wound before his wings are being thrown out, unfurling, flapping, catching the wind and slowing their descent. But they’re still going fast, fast, fast—

Suddenly everything spins as Keith rolls them— the world whirling past Lance’s vision in a swirl of color— and they hit the ground _hard_.

Keith hits first, curled around Lance protectively, absorbing the impact. It recoils through him. Dirt is thrown into the air as the earth crumbles, creating a small crater where they landed—

But before Lance can get his bearings— head still spinning, mind still swirling, drowning, dizzy with hormones and the rush of rut and bond— Keith is turning them again. Rolling them over with a snarl. Pinning Lance on his back and hovering over him—

Their eyes meet—

And Lance _feels_ — he _feels_ deep in his chest. Resonating around his heart. Strange sensations— not quite emotions and not quite thoughts— and yet both of those things. Not his own. _Keith’s_. Leaking through their bond. Filling his lungs like smoke. Too new and foreign for Lance to get a firm grasp on—

But he _understands_.

Doesn’t know how. Perhaps it’s instinctual. But he _understands_.

And so the moment Keith starts to shift back, Lance is with him. Both of them slipping out of their dragon skins and into their human forms— painful as hell but seamless in practice—

Until Lance finds himself naked and bare, on his back in the crater they created. Keith hovering over him on hands and knees. Caging him in. Pressed up against him. Cocks hard and heavy and oozing precum onto Lance’s thighs, spread wide and eager.

Perhaps it’s through their bond—

Perhaps it’s just instinct—

But Keith _understands_ what Lance wants— what he _needs_ — and the moment he moves, Keith is moving with him.

Lance reaches up, nails biting into Keith’s shoulders, fingers digging through his hair, twisting in deep as he pulls Keith forward, crashing their mouths together in a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth. Meanwhile Keith reaches down, takes one of his cocks in hand and guides it to where Lance is still slick and loose and eager—

He gasps into Keith’s mouth, back arching and body going rigid as Keith pushes against his hole— but then Keith is rumbling deep in his chest. He tucks his head under Lance’s chin, nuzzling at his neck and licking at the aching bite mark. As worked up as his scent is, something soothing leaks into it. And— as strange and foreign yet welcoming as it is— Lance _feels_ the same sort of comfort seep through their bond.

He takes a breath and relaxes, tilting his head back as Keith laps at where blood still oozes from his bite mark, sending shivers rushing down Lance’s spine, skin tingling.

And then he pushes in— Lance whines at the intrusion, half pained and half pleased— and Keith rumbles again, making these deep cooing sounds in lieu of words— as he goes deeper, and deeper, stretching Lance wide and filling him up—

Until his hips meet Lance’s, seated fully inside him, and Lance— he feels so _full_. So overwhelmed. So _complete_. He pants, gasping for air, whining as he claws at Keith’s back. It’s everything he hoped for, and nothing he could have prepared for— feeling this— this _whole_. With Keith deep inside him, bond tingling and new and warm in his chest, neck aching with the delightful sting of his bite.

“ _Keith_ …” He hisses. Eager. Desperate. He can tell Keith is holding still to let him get accustomed to it. He can _feel_ Keith’s steely resistance through their bond. Can feel how tense his body is, shaking with the effort to stay still—

But Lance doesn’t want him still.

He wants him hard and fast— wants to be _claimed_ —

He runs his fingers through Keith’s hair, smoothing it back as he cradles his face, pulling him close and panting agains this lips. “Take me,” he whispers— begs, pleads, demands— _“Take me. Claim me. Mate me.”_

Keith lets out a shuddering groan, pulling his hips back slowly, both of them shivering as he pulls out— and both of them letting out breathless moans as he slams his hips forward.

And just like that, his patience goes up in smoke, alpha and dragon released.

His pace is quick and brutal, control lost as he slams his hips forward, again and again— filling Lance up— hitting deep inside— places he’s never been able to reach on his own—Meanwhile his other cock slides in the crevice between Lance’s balls and thigh, slick with oil.

Maybe one day he’ll take both— a thought that has heat coiling and churning in his gut— but not today.

Lance holds onto Keith’s shoulders, claws scrapping bloody lines down his back as he tries to ground himself. His legs wrap around Keith’s hips, ankles locking, using his leverage to thrust his hips up to meet Keith’s— to get him deeper— deeper—

Keith pants against Lance’s neck, lips and teeth pressed against his bite. Lance buries his face in Keith’s hair, open mouth gasping against his temple.

Keith fucks him hard. Fucks him fast. Mates him good and deep and makes him _his_. Claims him with a desperation so primal that Lance can hardly believe Keith isn’t the one in a rut. And he _preens_ at his. His inner dragon and alpha wholly _pleased_. That he made Keith lose control. That he’s reduced Keith to this. That he holds this kind of power over another alpha— _his_ alpha— his _mate_ —

With every thrust, Lance can feel Keith’s knot growing. Thick and hard, pressing up against him— Keith whining with the pressure— but it won’t fit. They know it won’t fit. Not this time. Not without special preparation— which Lance is all for trying at some point, but not now.

“Mate me,” he whispers against Keith’s temple, voice ragged and hoarse and demanding. “Mate me. Breed me. _Keith_ — _Keith_ —“

Keith comes with a snarl and a gasp, burying himself deep, knot pressed against Lance’s ass, warmth filling him, and Keith’s hot breath against his bite.

Lance shivers, hands running through Keith’s hair, breath coming shallow and quick as Keith’s hips do these weak ruts, riding out his orgasm.

Lance lets him have a moment, but he’s not done with him yet. He’s still high on rut pheromones and hasn’t come yet.

And his patience only lasts so long.

Just as Keith starts to collapse on top of him, Lance gets a firm grip with arms and thighs and rolls them over. Pushes Keith’s back to the dirt and sits up atop him. Straddles his hips and rising high and proud. Hands spread out on Keith’s chest. Gazing down at him through lidded eyes—

Keith is beautiful like this.

Flushed. Chest heaving with every breath. Lips swollen and parted and blood stained. Looking up at Lance with heavy eyes, irises swirling with stars, pupils blown wide. Looking at Lance with awe. Marveling at him.

And in Lance’s chest, through their bond, he can feel the adoration. The fondness. The pride. The _love_.

Keith’s hands come to rest on his thighs, rubbing from knee to hip, palms hot to the touch against Lance’s sensitive flesh.

Lance takes in the view, but wastes little time. He’s needy. He’s dizzy. He’s driven by instinct and lust and _need_ —

One of Keith’s cocks is wet and leaking, slowly going flaccid against his hip. But the other is still flushed and hard, primed and ready.

Lance takes it in hand, rises up on his knees, aligns it, and sinks down in a rush— gasping as that feeling of fullness comes back full force. Extra wet with Keith’s cum still leaking out of him, oozing down his thighs. Keith’s hands tighten on his thighs, back arching beautifully, inhaling sharply as his face twists in pleasure.

Lance rides him without mercy. Lifting almost all the way off before dropping down hard, bottoming out and drawing moans from both of them.

Hands pressed firm to Keith’s chest to keep him balanced. Knees digging hard into the earth below them, pain barely noticeable in the haze of lust and pleasure. His rut makes him dizzy. Keith’s scent— their scents mingling and new because they’re _mates_ — drives him crazy. Encourages him to go faster. To seek out his pleasure and chase it— chase it— _chase it_ —

His cocks are hard and heavy, knots thickening at the base. They bounce with every movement, slapping against Keith’s stomach, leaking precum into the thick hair trailing down from his navel. It’s a tease. Friction that’s barely there but enough to give Lance a taste.

He needs it— _needs it_ — needs—

“ _Keith_ ,” he breathes. “Keith, touch me—“ He’s cut off with a gasp as Keith’s hand slips from his thigh, wrapping around both of his cocks— no, all _three_ of them. His own hardening cock wedged between Lance’s, the three of them barely able to be gripped together. He can’t get much leverage to stroke in this position, but he doesn’t need to. His grip is enough.

Enough for Lance’s movement to thrust his cocks into Keith’s firm grip. To get that friction— to chase it— to rut against Keith’s cock and hand while thrusting back against his other one, filling himself up.

Suddenly Keith is planting his feet, lifting his his hips and thrusting _hard_ — hitting _deeper_ — meeting Lance’s thrusts with enough force to make him topple forward over his chest.

Then Keith’s other hand is at the back of his head, fingers carding through his hair before gripping tight, guiding his head to his own neck as he tilts his head back—

“Bite me,” he whispers.

Lance doesn’t have to be told twice. Adrenaline surges through his veins. Excitement prickling across his skin and bubbling through their bond. He opens his mouth wide, latching onto Keith’s neck— right above his scent gland— and _bites down_.

His teeth break through skin. Blood bursts to life on his tongue— hot and spicy, cinnamon and cloves, earth and ash, fire and heat— so much, so much, _so much_ , _KeithKeithKeith_ —

His movements become sporadic, losing his rhythm, and it’s the only warning he gives before he’s spilling over Keith’s hand, both cocks coming at once, spitting twin ribbons of white across his stomach. His body tightens, going rigid as pleasure crashes through him— and he feels Keith go tense beneath him, warmth once more filling him as Keith’s hips stutter.

Lance collapses on top of him, their chests heaving together, sticky with sweat and cum. Keith’s arms wrap around him, and Lance nuzzles against his neck, lazily and idly licking at the bite mark he had made.

He had bitten Keith.

He had _finally bitten Keith._

And Keith had bitten him.

A giddiness bubbles through him, a breathless laugh escaping him, tired but content. Fondness oozes through their bond, filling his chest, warm and thick. Keith hums, hands running up and down Lance’s back.

It’s clear he’s still wrapped up in his high, and to be fair, so is Lance. But… his rut is still simmering beneath the surface. Adrenaline waned but not gone. Body still sensitive. Restless. Aching in more ways than one.

He’s suddenly aware of how _exposed_ they are. Out in the open. Where anyone might wander by. Into his territory. Might approach his mate while he’s vulnerable and unsuspecting—

Lance doesn’t realize he’s growling until Keith coos softly.

“ _Shhh_ ,” he breaths, nuzzling against Lance’s temple. “Shhh, it’s okay. No one is around.”

Lance swallows thickly, pacified for the moment, but his anxiety runs deep, fueled and high on rut pheromones—

Then Keith is moving, sitting up and forcing Lance to do the same in his lap. He whines as Keith slips out of him, his cum leaking out and dripping down his thighs. It’s a strange sensation, but not an unpleasant one. And Lance is suddenly struck with the feeling of loss— off wanting to plug himself up to keep all of Keith inside— and he shivers. Caught off guard by the thought and— oddly, but not unpleasantly— turned on by it.

He can already feel his cocks aching, neither of them fully going flaccid. His hips rut idly, finding lazy friction against Keith’s stomach, sliding through their mingling cum.

Keith chuckles, and Lance growls.

“Easy,” he says. “Soon, but not here.” Lance whines, needy and impatient, hands restlessly pawing against Keith’s bare chest. “Don’t worry.” A hand running through his hair. Lips at his temple. “I’ll take care of you. Like I promised I would.”

Like he promised before they presented. It felt like so long ago. This isn’t at all how he imagined it back then, but here and now, Lance isn’t sure he’d change any of it. Despite what they’ve been through— despite what they _will_ go through— he likes Keith as he is, and he likes himself as he is.

He likes them as they are.

Keith stands, hoisting Lance up into his arms, cradling him to his chest. Lance’s arms wrap around his shoulders, face buried in his neck. Nosing the bite mark with pride and delight— especially whenever Keith lets out a shuddering breath.

He walks them into the lake, washing off their bodies before stepping back onto the shore.

Keith grows his wings, large and wide, scales rippling across his skin and his horns sprouting from his hair. His pupils go slitted, irises widening and deepening. Dark scales freckle his cheekbones. Lance watches. Transfixed by his beauty. Marveling at his strength as he crouches low and then leaps into the air.

Flying like this— half transformed— is slow and not easy, but manageable. Because Keith is powerful. And he’s _his_.

He carries Lance away from the lake, toward the mountains, landing outside the mouth of a cave, half obscured with dangling vines. He shifts them aside with a wing, stepping inside.

Curiously, Lance lifts his head, looking around at the cozy little cave. It isn’t very deep, but it’s well hidden. The walls craggy, but smooth. And, set up against the side, are several bags of supplies. _Their_ bags.

Keith crouches down, setting Lance gently on a blanket that’s already been laid out.

“How long have you had this prepared?” Lance muses, looking at Keith in awe.

He merely shrugs, almost bashful as his dragon features start to fade. He takes a seat next to Lance— no doubt because Lance has yet to let go of him— and Lance curls up against his side. “I scouted out this place days ago, once we knew your rut would be coming. I wanted us to have a safe place to ride it out.”

_Us_. Like it had never been a question that Keith would join him. Perhaps it hadn’t been. Perhaps, despite all the bumps and shifts along the road, they always knew they would end up here.

“That’s very sweet,” Lance rumbles, half strewn across Keith’s lap.

His body aches painfully— distantly he can recognize that his backside is sore as hell, even if the adrenaline and hormones keep him from really feeling it right now— but there’s also the mounting ache of need. A restlessness he can’t keep at bay. It’s a slow burning flame, not urgent at the moment, but he has no doubt that it will be soon.

Keith hums. “When I woke up alone, I knew it was time. I brought our things here before finding you at the lake. Shiro knows where we are. I asked him to bring us food after hunts. Since…” He clears his throat, shifting his weight. His voice gone adorably soft and shy. “Newly mated pairs shouldn’t leave each other during the first few days after the bite. Even to hunt.”

He smiles against Keith’s neck, lips pressed to the bite. “I always knew you’d be a good mate.”

Keith is quiet for a long time, hands absently moving over Lance’s skin. He’s hot to the touch. Like fire, singing Lance’s chilled flesh, leaving heat in his wake. Lance loves it. He always has. “Things won’t be easy,” he finally says.

Lance hums, thoughtful. “They never have been.”

“What we have… it’s not _done_. We’ll have the clan to deal with. Your family—“

“They already know how I feel about you. I haven’t exactly been subtle.” He can feel Keith swallow hard, and presses his lips to the hollow beneath his chin, nuzzling up along his jaw, smiling when he feels Keith relax. “I don’t care what anyone else says. And there’s nothing they can do about it now.”

They’re mated. They’re a pair. Two alpha males. It may go against tradition, but it’s done. And Lance couldn’t be happier.

“Come what may, I am yours, and you are mine,” Lance whispers, soft and fierce as he nuzzles Keith’s throat. Such a vulnerable place, yet a place Keith lets Lance near without question. Just as he always has. “When the time comes, we’ll face everyone together.”

Keith lets out a long breath, rolling them over. He lays them out over the blanket. Lance on his back— hips absently rutting against Keith’s thigh to seek the barest friction— and Keith on top of him. He buries his face in Lance’s neck. Breathes in deep and sighs. Sated. _Happy_.

Lance runs his fingers through Keith’s hair, content to bask in the moment, in the warmth of Keith’s body, and let his rut simmer for now. He can feel Keith’s chest shudder. Can hear his choked up breaths.

He doesn’t say anything— Lance isn’t sure he’s able to— but Lance can _feel_ it. Feel it rushing through their bond to fill up his chest. Swelling against his ribs. Overwhelming, yet grounding. Thrilling, yet calm. Foreign, yet so, so incredibly familiar.

Because it’s exactly what Lance has felt for a long, long time.

He can feel Keith swallowing hard, lips moving like he’s trying to voice words, can hear how choked up he is.

But he doesn’t need to.

Because Lance knows.

“I love you, too, Keith,” he whispers, and Keith’s grip on him tightens, body going rigid for a moment before his hips finally— _finally_ — start to move against Lance’s. Before the absent minded friction starts to become purposeful. Before Lance is breathing heavily as Keith peppers his skin with lips, tongue, and teeth. And all Lance can do is hold on and let Keith sweep him away in the inferno of his touch. Consume him. Devour him.

He’s grown up with traditions and expectations of what he should want. He’s been told countless times that he’ll want an omega. That it’s only a matter of time. That he should crave a soft body and a sweet scent.

But from what he’s tasted of desire, he holds with those who favor fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on social media to learn more about me, my writing, and what's coming up next! It's 2020 and I'm still klance'ing.
> 
> **My Social Media:** [Tumblr](http://www.wittyy-name.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WittyyName), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/wittyy_name/)

**Author's Note:**

> Next Update: Wednesday, 1-22-20
> 
> To learn more about me and my writing, please visit my social media!
> 
>  **My Social Media:** [Tumblr](http://www.wittyy-name.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WittyyName), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/wittyy_name/)


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